


The Small, Shared Things

by anchors



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 87,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anchors/pseuds/anchors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people who matter do not come into Sherlock's life by droves, but these few are enough. One person - not even a person yet, really; just a few cells - enters it and is enough to change it all. In which Sherlock and John have a baby, and learn what really matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Small, Shared Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/910458) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



> Cross-posted from FF.net. Updates are on Thursdays and Sundays, at least until after the winter holiday, in which I'll probably only be able to put one out a week (blame the midterms for which I'll be studying).
> 
> Obvious MPreg warning. I won't be offended if you turn away now because it isn't your thing.
> 
> Many, many thanks go out to KT, my wonderful and talented beta, for expertly wrangling my literary messes into something resembling good writing.

 

\-----

 

John and Sherlock were never normal, per se, but they liked to think they lived happy, comfortable lives.

They were predictable in their unpredictability. John would stumble downstairs for breakfast only to see Sherlock sorting through vast piles of oddly-colored human hair, and to his credit barely blinked before setting to the kettle. He was well on his way to believing six impossible things before breakfast, only because he'd often see Sherlock attempt - and conquer - each and every one. To be fair, Sherlock was frequently surprised by John as well - so common, so casual, with so much more under the filaments of his battle-scarred skin. The mere fact that he woke up each day to find John was still there, still pursing his lips and sighing and muttering under his breath and casting glares and still too bloody fond or stupid to leave - well, they both had their fair share of surprises.

The first Major Surprise was John's and, though it wasn't entirely unexpected, still came as a bit of a shock. John was to go off chasing leads in Manchester while Sherlock stayed behind on their current case, and with the taxi idling outside John was throwing the last of his things together and worriedly checking over the list he'd left for Sherlock - unnecessary demands about bills and the shopping and  _/deleted_. At last, he'd tossed his coat over his arm and rounded on his flat mate.

"Be careful, alright?" he sighed, tipping Sherlock's head down and pressing a quick kiss to his lips before sweeping out the door.

It was the unpredictability of it again; the way things just sort of seemed to slip and slide until they were crashing into one another and happening, happening, all at once. If Sherlock wasn't careful, he'd let his brain get like that, and all too often, it almost does. But John's Major Surprise stopped it in its tracks - an event that, despite the theory of infinity, was never previously recorded and would never be recorded again.

Things started moving again when John returned a few seconds later, confusion scrawled across his forehead.

"Did I just - ?"

"Yes."

"…Right."

John went to Manchester, as planned. When he returned, his plan Date and Marry Beautiful Girl/Have Kids/Possible Dog was effectively scrapped in favor of Plan Shag Flatmate Until His Eyes Cross. Most effectively scrapped.

[If Sherlock loves anything, it is suspense - absolutely adores it; the build up, the curling, coiling weight of it as it stretches toward realization. Surprises, on the other hand, come with no warning. They are just suddenly called into being, in a manner that is both unimaginative and boring - what was the fun of being unable to predict anything? That one surprise, though, was worth letting slide.]

But even despite that consternation, the second notable surprise is Sherlock's, and though he knows it is a Major Surprise - Major, very extremely Major - he is, in fact, not surprised, as this is one he has been planning. The real surprises are a) that this experiment has come to a successful conclusion, and b) John's, when Sherlock tells him.

[Sherlock very much loves secrets, too. Being able to tell things that others could not see cemented this fact from a very early age. The suspense factors into it as well - he decides when everyone will know what he knows; he holds the key to their understanding in his hands; he has them all dazzled by the superb power of his terrifyingly brilliant mind. When he is the one controlling the suspense, it is a sensation almost akin to realizing something in the first place -  _power, control, knowledge_.]

But, as he watches the mirror image of his hands spider over the pale skin of his abdomen; up, down - all over - he is stubbornly refusing to believe it is anything but the joy of secret-keeping and suspense, and yes, even surprise, that keeps him from shouting the news to the world - even if there is an equally stubborn niggling that settles uncomfortably at the base of his spine and refuses to budge; an uncertain weight in the pit of his stomach.

Before Sherlock tells John of the second Major Surprise, they both (though mostly John) liked to think they led pleasant, peaceful lives.

But Sherlock and John were never really normal, and were about to find out just how not-normal they could be, the realization of which would come in the form of a small bundle of cells.


	2. Chapter 2

_(Tuesday, October 18th; Week 5)_

It's Tuesday, wet and grey. Morning.

Sherlock stares out the small square window from where he's lying on the bed. He can hear London moving below them, unceasingly alive and incessantly awake, even as his little square of sky appears calm and silent. It's a world of paradoxes, just like the people in it.

Will John think him a paradox, he wonders absently, curling closer to the sleeping man in question. John snuffles a little, arms tightening closer with a little sigh. Perhaps he already does. He can't decide if he likes that idea - to be a mystery, to be always wondered at; it's powerful and just the right side of heady. But for John… he loves his marveling, yes, his  _that's brilliant!_ s and _fantastic!_ s and the light in his eyes while he watches him at work. He's the only one who ever really marveled.

And at the same time, he's the only one Sherlock  _wants_ to know everything; to be able to see inside and not have to puzzle anything out. Clear, still waters, he thinks. Not London skies.

And yet… his eyes dart down again, catch sight of a strip of his own pale skin.

He's out of bed, silent and swift. At the door he hesitates, looks back at John in the rumpled sheets, light from the window falling over his peaceful face. No nightmares, for how long now? _Because of me? Maybe, possibly._  And how long till they start again?  _Because of me, and the things I'd do for us?_

 

_____

 

As for Sherlock, this isn't a nightmare. More like some impossible, lovely dream.

When he'd first thought of the idea, he'd dismissed it as mad and impossible. Because it  _was_  mad and impossible. Except, as he very well knew, it was really only improbable. Because it could be done. Actually, not improbable at all - it could very easily be done. What was really improbable was that he started to want it.

But maybe that wasn't even improbable, either - that was really only unexpected. But considering the amount of unexpected things in his life, and considering that all this depended on one very unexpected John entering his life, improbable was not the word for it. All he did know was that as he would lie awake next to John, unblinkingly drinking every inch of him in under moonlight and darkness alike, surrounded by the scent of him, and them, he could think of nothing more beautiful. Nothing more thrilling than the thought of them, bound in flesh and blood. In being.

There were tests, and research, and thinking - lots of thinking, because this wasn't a light decision, as even he and his love of whims knew - and then there was sex - lots, and lots, and lots of sex (because there hadn't been a case that week, and it just so happened to coincide with ovulation) - and now, this.

He feels a little like God, if such a being existed - all this power of creation, and in the moments where he forgets that John still needs telling, and that there is an absolutely frightening amount of  _no going back_ , he can't contain the grin that spreads itself wide across his angled face.

He hears John's footsteps tramping down the stairs, and quickly busies himself with his slice of toast. Despite appearances, he does need to eat. Even more so, now.

"'Lo," John mumbles, still endearingly sleep-tousled and groggy as he shuffles to the fridge. "We have a case?"

We. It will never stop being strange, Sherlock knows. This  _we_. "Yes," he answers, pulling out his mobile and scrolling through his latest message. "Islington, two women found dead at three this morning. One of whom was an albino."  _An_  albino,  _John_. He shivers slightly, notices John's fond, if slightly disproving, look, and wills himself to stop. "I'd already be there, but Lestrade has annoyingly moved the body to the morgue already."

"Annoying, why?"

"Crime scenes contain just as many clues as the victims, John."

"So why don't you just go there anyway?" he asks, settling in across the table.

Sherlock sighs, stabbing viciously at his eggs. He possibly mutters something about incompetent Yarders as a response, but his mind is moving past this conversation before the sentiment can leave his lips. So few facts to go on, not enough information in the detective inspector's simple texts. But oh, what can he pull from them? What information that no one else would even dream up?

He spends moments in silent contemplation, leaning back in his chair, fingers coming to steeple before his chin. Abruptly the weight of eyes on him pull him from his thoughts. "What?" he snaps sharply, not appreciating the unspoken interruption.

John is continuing to stare at him, and though he knows it to be impossible, he feels something in his chest constrict. Does he know? But how, he'd never -

"You're eating," John blurts, and quickly, imperceptibly - sheepishly, though he'd never tell anyone - Sherlock relaxes.  _Oh_. Should have expected this to be the limit of John's deductive skill, though he does manage to frequently impress him more than the rest of the human race.

"Excellent observation, John; your skills are improving," Sherlock says vaguely in response, and he can practically feel John bristle.

"You're on a case. You never eat when there's a case." His eyes are still ridiculously wide, but quickly they narrow and center on him. "Are you feeling alright?"

Something in him leaps, that John knows these things. He will never stop being surprised that for all John does not know, the things he does are special. The best things. And often, the things no one else does.

That he knows Sherlock well enough to be able to tell these things about him - it's terrifying. Fascinating. Like giving John the scalpel and letting him peel back all his layers, one by one. He'd let John, if he asked, and maybe that is the more terrifying thing, because he knows the things he'd find if he just cut deep enough.

Even when he can guess at these things, however, he's still not going deep enough. Sherlock cannot decide whether or not he should be thankful for this or hate it. The hard work of telling and emotions and other unpleasantness is still up to him. He cannot imagine being anything other than ecstatic about this.

But he knows that somehow, some way, John could once again do the impossible.

The thought is quickly deleted - purged, thrashed, burned from his memory until it never existed in the first place - and his head snaps up, quickly refocusing on the conversation. "Oh, yes, fine." He stands, pushing his breakfast haphazardly aside. For some reason, he is no longer hungry. "Come, John, we need to be in the mortuary by eight or the bite marks will be completely useless."

 

_____

 

The case is more disappointing than he would earlier have imagined. It wraps itself up neatly in his mind within seconds of seeing the first dead woman's face; is cemented in the second's teeth, is confirmed by some Googling done in seconds on his mobile. O _f course it was their brother; obvious._

"The brother?  _Their_ brother? They're not even related," Lestrade says, hand raking through his hair in exasperation. Surely, he must know by now that he is usually, if not always, wrong.

"Don't be daft, Lestrade," he says, heaving an exasperated sigh. "Adopted in one, biological in another."

"And how - oh, god, why do I even bother? Someone go out and arrest the brother, alright?" he calls, sinking into a chair and putting his head in his hands.

Sherlock sniffs. What does  _he_  have to sulk about, other than the distressing lack of competency within his forces? Even Sherlock isn't sulking, and given the fact that it's been ages since he's had a proper case to occupy his mind, that is saying something. Why isn't he sulking? Why is that important?

Mmm, yes. That again. Involuntary, his hands move slowly upwards from where they are clenched on his thighs, but he stops himself. Marvelous, all-consuming. He can't stop thinking about it, and for a man who can't stop thinking that is a very dangerous thing. He's only ever had that feeling on cases before, but now this. On another being. Within him. It is him, partially. Before he can stop it, reign it back in, the thoughts are rushing off to what parts of him it might be, his mind and hair and -

"Sherlock?"

His eyes dart back up to meet those of a very confused Lestrade. "What are you smiling for? I haven't seen you this happy since you and your doctor broke the betting pool."

Sherlock grimaces. He didn't enjoy being reminded of how predictable they had obviously been to the Yarders. Then again, what he didn't like more was that it had taken them so bloody long to get around to it. Even worse, that  _Anderson_  had won. If it were anyone but John, it might have spoiled a perfectly good relationship - not that he'd have a perfectly good relationship with anyone but John, which basically made all else irrelevant.

He realizes he has still not answered Lestrade's question, and given that he has no business prying, he continues not to do so. He offers him a somewhat contemptuous look before sweeping out of the morgue. He hears a long-suffering sigh behind him, but is not pursued.

Once outside, he stops, turns. John is taking a phone call by the doors ( _not family, he's smiling. Work then. Sarah most likely let him off)_ , but quickly pockets it and turns back to him.

"Well?"

"Solved it. Boring," he mutters, and kicks rather much too petulantly at a small stone by his feet. John chuckles a little, before looping their arms.

"Come on, then. Let's find something else to cheer you up."

"Oh? What do you have in mind?" He doesn't deny that maybe, just maybe, he is letting some suggestion drip into the words. Hormones, and all.

John - wonderful, clever John - is quick to pick up on it. His arm latches just a little tighter, body brushing just a breath closer; all these minute details that Sherlock feels and knows as if they take up the entire universe - because they do, they do. "Well, I understand you're not working a case."

Sherlock's face falls. Oh. "So, you're going to make me eat or sleep or something equally inane."

"They aren't inane, and no - you're forgetting that there are other things we don't do when you're working. And so, since you aren't, we might as well take advantage of it, yeah?"

Oh, stupid. Of course. Mind obviously not on task as it should be. Mind would soon be too occupied to be on any task but one. "I'm cheering up already."

They crash into the flat, and John's up against the door before it's even closed properly. Sherlock boxes him in, head looming above John's. Their noses just barely brush as Sherlock leans his head in. John throws a challenging smile upwards, one Sherlock answers with a smirk before diving straight in.

He dips his face into the crook of John's shoulder to fuse his lips across that toned and corded neck, leaving deep, sucking marks on the skin.  _Mark you, all over, mine, mine, mine._  John tilts his head with a moan that forces itself through his clenched teeth. Shaking hands reach for Sherlock's trousers and messily untuck the shirt there. John lifts under it, exploring the cool skin with his fingertips, spanning his back and dipping down, down, down. The rough, ghosting fingers against the skin of his waist sends a shiver through Sherlock's body, and with a growl he shoves his hips forwards, rubbing them together. The friction of the fabric is painful, wonderful, and it needs to be gone, right now.

His tongue swipes a glistening line up the side of his neck, before he crashes into John's lips again. John teases his bottom lip out, only to nip at it sharply and draw a sharp gasp from the already heavily-breathing man. He attacks right back, practically curling around John in an effort to press every still-annoyingly-clothed inch of them together. A knee presses between his legs, wrenching a sharp hiss from his throat - he's so hard, god, he's throbbing, and he can actually feel the heat of it. His nails slip from clawing at the door to tangle in that sandy blond hair, raking desperately across his scalp.  _Please, please I'm yours, yours, yours._

Hands settle at his trousers, John fumbling with the button and cursing under his panting breath until it finally gives way. An unsteady sigh falls from his tongue when John takes him in hand, gives a sharp stroke. Immediately, his own hands are pulling down John's own jeans until they lie in a pool around his ankles, and Sherlock can grasp the length of him, the full, glorious weight, at last.

How strange, that this boring, simple act is never boring or simple with John. And now, so much more meaning in it. So far, far from simple. Extraordinary.

John is keening weakly into his mouth, the both of them frantically tugging toward release. The moment they stepped through the door (John had the courtesy to inquire if Mrs. Hudson was out and would not be disturbed, Sherlock had the courtesy to distract him into a similar state of not caring), he'd known this would be quick. But he's almost surprised at how quickly, when John passes a thumb over his slit and digs his nails into the tense flesh just so, he comes, hot streaks coating John's hand.

He's sliding downwards before he can stop it, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't want it to. Some things happen with very little thought, and though it usually isn't the case, these are sometimes the best things. It's how all this got started, anyway. His mind never stops running; always, there are these little threads of knowledge that spark behind his eyes - but this slows him down. As if the world were turning faster and he couldn't keep up. It's a strange, sickly sensation, being reduced down to the base - so instinctual and primal. It was never worth it before.

His breath ghosts along John's trembling thighs, nose resting in the soft curls of his groin. His tongue licks a lazy line up to the head before his mouth follows, closing in around him. John practically shudders, head falling back against the door as his eyes squeeze shut. He's panting, or praying, or maybe it's just a litany of Sherlock's name.  _Yes, that._

He splays a possessive hand across John's arse, gripping as his cheeks hollow. John is quivering with the restraint required in holding himself back from rocking forward. Always the gentleman, even in the midst of what Sherlock imagines people probably consider very ungentlemanly acts. He wonders what it would be like to see John let go completely. To go so far from kind, mild-mannered John. He's seen him kill, but never has he been deadly in his presence. He shivers; isn't sure he wants to find out, even as he's sure he desperately does. Everything; all the little bits and pieces of John that no one else has ever known, will never know - he wants all he has to offer and all the things he tries to hide.

Another time, then.

For now, he takes care of it, taking him in deep before letting all but the head slip from his lips. John's pleading now, it won't be long. He grins around John's cock; there are things he knows about John, too, things he's pretty sure no one else knows - and, if things go his way, no one ever will. He hums as he takes John in again, and out, and in, and out, and then yes - the added, gentle pressure of his teeth as they glide along the surface finally wrings his orgasm from him, the taste of John flooding his mouth.

John slumps against the door, eventually sliding down to rest where Sherlock is leaning up against the wall, eyes closed. An eyelid lifts, pupil still blown wide beneath it. He feels the smug smile stretch across his face, feels it widen when John starts laughing.

There's the sound of keys in the lock, as poor Mrs. Hudson comes home, and they are groaning at the timing and dashing, giggling, up the stairs, tripping over pants legs and their own feet and feeling utterly ridiculous.

And alive. So alive, and Sherlock wonders if maybe this feeling is why he is so glad to have given it to someone else, and why he doesn't imagine there's any other possible way John can feel differently.

Still, as they tangle together upstairs again, John pressing lazy kisses to his back and with his hand slung over his waist, he can't bring himself to force the words out. A peculiar problem, one he's almost never faced. But then again,  _this_  is something he has never faced. He doesn't think he'll want to face it alone much longer, as much fun as it is, this secret-keeping. This is something that is begging to be shared. So why the hesitation, when he knows what kind of man John is and when this is something that feels so inexplicably  _right_?

Almost imperceptibly - but Sherlock feels it, every last millimeter - John's arms tighten around his stomach.

 

_____

 

The rest of the day is spent in various forms of lethargy. Things would be so unbelievably boring if John weren't there to entertain him, but even he grows tired of lying in bed all day. He's gently pushing Sherlock off at last, laughing, "Shit, it's already one. We can't stay here forever."

"Of course not. Nothing is forever," Sherlock scoffs, still lazily encircling John and drawing him back down.

He doesn't resist, growing quiet all the same. "Some things are."

Infinity. So big and wide inside Sherlock's head. Too wide to wrap around and pin down and understand, and in those moments where he's tipping on the edge of comprehension, it's just a terrifying black abyss No, no, no infinities or eternities, then. Just here, and now, where the blackness of burying his face in the shadows of John's arms is not at all frightening.

He manages to convince John to stay an hour longer, just dozing, but eventually they're out of bed and carrying on with life as it is. Sherlock throws himself into a suspicious looking experiment haphazardly balanced in glass vials across the kitchen table, completely absorbed as he fiddles with the dials on his microscope and breathes the occasional excited exclamation. John reads and pays bills, makes a lunch that Sherlock doesn't eat, and eventually heads out to the pub with some mates. He throws promises to be home soon over his shoulder that Sherlock doesn't register until he's walking back inside. But it's all better for it anyway, he thinks, as John pulls him in for a messy kiss that has him tasting the lager on John's tongue and feeling the lopsided grin on his face. When John's gone, there's always the feeling that something is missing, even when he's not fully aware of it. Much better to sequester it away until it has vanished all together.

It never used to be that way. He was very much a solitary person - by choice, of course; other people were too uninteresting or simple or tedious to put up with, so he made a habit of choosing not to do so. But John, of course, changes everything. Fills a room and leaves it bigger, lighter than before, in a way that makes him never want to go back to small, cramped spaces and closed doors. Some days he wants to throw them all open and say,  _Don't you see? This is what you do inside my head. Open and wide and impossibly big._  John would tell him that he meant to say his heart, but they both still have their secrets.

And that, he thinks, as  _John, John, John_ surrounds him in every sense, is just the way it has become for him, in the here and now.

 

_____

 

Moonlight is drifting down, hazy and obscured, through the square in the wall. John is silver, all light barely-there edges and blue shadow.

As his eyes fall over that strong, steady form, breathing comfortably and so unaware, he still thinks the thought is beautiful. The most beautiful thought, if thoughts could be beautiful (and Sherlock knows that while sometimes, and very often, they are not, sometimes they are).

Sherlock disentangles himself from John's arms, the cold air ignored as it settles around his body. He moves through the room; pale, quiet. The mirror in the corner watches his progress in silence, until he comes to stand before it. The Sherlock in the mirror stares back, and despite the darkness, his eyes are strangely alight. He wonders what John imagines when he looks at those eyes. He wonders why, when everything he does is so painfully obvious, so brutally, terribly open to John and only John, it sometimes takes him months - years, now, even - to see behind them.

He does not have years for John to find his secrets now. He has, approximately, nine months.

He finds his gaze resting on his smooth, unlined front. The flat expanse tells nothing, rises and falls gently with his breathing, but says no more. And yet in his mind, he can see it - a bundle of cells, growing, dividing, shaping what was once nothing into something. Someone. Just beneath the skin, pure creation, happening every second. Every passing moment of time was spinning the threads of life inside his body, and he aches to see it for himself. So much that briefly, his hands come up to curl over the skin, as if to pry himself apart and look inside, to say,  _Hello, look at you; mine and his and ours for the rest of forever._

Sherlock surprises himself with the sentiment. He knows forever is unrealistic. Wrong, absurd, ridiculous.

But till death do them part.

Yes, that he can do.

His own hands, once clawing, now entwine over his cold flesh and press in an embrace.


	3. Chapter 3

_(Wednesday, October 19th; Week 5 continued)_

The morning does not go very well at all.

Turns out, the experiment Sherlock had left on the counter overnight sort of… festered. Yes, that was probably the right word, though John was much more unnecessarily dramatic about it later. They'd burst into the kitchen at around five in the morning, coughing and choking, as John shouted about not inhaling and also possible death threats, while Sherlock scoffed but mostly did as asked (because yes, considering the nature of the material, they should not inhale. Inhaling would not be good).

Six arduous hours, a hazardous materials squad, and perhaps a few ambulances later, they are free to return to the apartment. John does a lot of exasperated muttering, Sherlock grumbles about the lost results, and 221B is generally not a pleasant place to be for the entirety of that morning.

John irritably attempts to go back to sleep. Sherlock inflicts torture upon the violin.

 _Screeeeech, pluck, pling pling scrick_.

John is even more not happy than before, and still very tired, though the clock is fast approaching noon.

Sherlock is also not happy, not paying attention to John's not-happiness as he is preoccupied with his own. The results from those tests could have been a breakthrough in the science of crime. What had he so carelessly missed to allow them to get to such a state? Had John/Mrs. Hudson/Mycroft tampered with them? What knowledge could he have gained, if the idiot police hadn't forbade him from taking some final samples, that was now lost forever?

Sherlock continues to saw away his frustrations.

 _Pluck, pluck, screeeeech, scriiiitch, pluck, pling_.

After several more minutes spent with a pillow over his head, John decides it is not worth it. He realizes he has unwittingly made a vitally important choice in this matter, as he discovers when he goes to take a shower and happens to tip over the rubbish bin by the sink. A doctor, John knows immediately what they are when they tumble out and come to a stop at his feet.

 _Snap_.

Sherlock grimaces as the A-string curls up and sways reproachfully in the air. Would have to get it replaced - John's favorite piece depended largely upon note combinations utilizing that string. Should not abuse it so next time. He still will. Always does.

With a sigh, he begins packing the instrument into its case. Rather than help in his brooding, he is now only more cross. Even then, his care of it is still tender - he wipes down the body, tucks the bow into the soft velvet and fastens the silver locks on the case. He toes it toward the bookshelf, eyes finally looking up to acknowledge John, who has been standing in the doorway between kitchen and living room for quite some time, most likely looking to complain about the noise. Well, he certainly doesn't need to worry anymore. He can get more precious sleep now that…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

In John's hand - which is very, very steady - are three pregnancy tests. Sherlock's three pregnancy tests.

(Three. Had to be thorough, after all. No use getting hopeful without repeated trials.)

"What are these?" John asks, and his voice is strange. Not right. What is he thinking, why, why - ?

He settles for his regular tone of condescension. "Please, John. You know perfectly well what they are."

"Stop." John snaps. His voice rings out harsh and cold, and suddenly it is all too silent in the room, and Sherlock's pulse is all too loud in his ears. "And you know perfectly well what I mean."

"I can assure you that, for once, I don't know." The reply is cool, even as the roaring sound of blood in his veins grows louder. It is drumming, singing, even. This, now or never, always -

John stares at him. His jaw clenches, and at last his mouth works open, but it is still a long time till any sound comes out. "Are they yours?"

Sherlock just stares straight back.

"Not - not for a case, or an experiment, or -"

"Yes."

John blinks once. Twice. His tongue wets his lips. "And you. You're -"

"Yes."

Everything goes terribly, horribly quiet. Sherlock stares back defiantly, though his mind is racing as he catalogues every inch of John's expressionless face. It is so frustrating, and he has thought it many times before, that he cannot see right through him as he can everyone else. And simultaneously the most unexpectedly wonderful thing in the world.

Now, though. Now it is something else entirely.

"John," Sherlock says at last, and it comes out much more quietly than intended. Almost a whisper. A breath.

John inhales with a shudder, hand reaching out to clutch at the doorframe. His knuckles go white, while the other hand is suddenly up grasping at his face. "Oh my god," he whispers. " _Oh_ , my god."

Sherlock's heart constricts - he can feel it, it does happen, not just a metaphor; would carve it out and show it to John in that moment, make him see it and understand it and know. Why is he not happy? This is beautiful, powerful, the most important thing either of them has ever done. And for John, who has invaded Afghanistan and saved the lives of dying men, and for Sherlock, who has caught criminals and saved their would-be victims, that's saying so much. It says everything. Does he not understand that? Suddenly, somehow, someway, some mad, impossible way that he will dig out of John by the end; that he will study and think on and wonder at and marvel over and bloody well kill himself trying to understand - John had become the madman's fixation. Despite everything, despite  _ordinary_  and  _common_  and  _normal_ , maybe because of  _broken_  and  _mad_  and  _everything he ever needed, all in one man,_  he was the only one who fit those jagged sharp edges and softened them in all his own mad, impossible ways. So why does he not understand that this, this melding of their edges, their own shaping and crafting and creating until they are one in the same piece - how can he possibly know its import, and still not want to meet Sherlock's eyes?

Look at me, look at me, look. Me. This. Us.

John is looking away; not looking anywhere, but the thing that matters is that it's at anyplace but straight at him. Where it belongs.

Sherlock looks down, calm, collected. Breathes deeply, then in an abrupt, decisive motion, stands and strides to John. He covers the distance in milliseconds, each one counted, because each one counts. He looms over John, shadow falling over the man still sagging in the doorway. He is close enough to smell him; that scent he knows so well, but he knows fear when he smells it, too.  _Why are you afraid, why would anyone fear this, John, why, explain._  But Sherlock is not here to listen to any explanations John would give him, because he does not want to hear what John would most likely have to say -  _no, don't say it, I can't bear to hear you say it and it's too loud inside my head already_. But more importantly, because there are no words now. Not for this.

Sherlock understands the merits of silence. It's easier to think in silence. But it's also, he has discovered, easier to feel. No distractions.

The here, and now.

In silence, Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, threading his fingers swiftly down through the silk until he can slide it from his arms. Still John's eyes are closed; still he is lost in racing thought. Sherlock can see it working behind his face, and understands. He knows, know what it feels like. Overwhelming amounts of information, all at once, in an assault of the most inescapable kind - because it's happening behind your skull. But now he needs John to be the one understanding. Not needs like he needs breathing. So much more than that.

Sherlock encircles John's wrists and draws his hands down. Holds them firmly against his front. For a moment, there is nothing. Then, the fingers twitch, hesitate, and come to splay wide across his abdomen.

He cannot help that breath that hitches in his throat. Suddenly, they are all connected, and the realization of those unbreakable bonds is more heady than even he'd realized. The warm skin on his is made of the same things as the one who is growing inside of him. It's all the same John-stuff, and all the same bits of him, too. All together, all in one.  _Lovely, fantastic. John, do you feel it now?_

John's fingers, soft and so, so steady, slide across his skin.

Finally, yes, John is looking up at him. He fixes on those eyes as if they are all that's left. Blue and dark and still so warm; blue was never so warm-looking, with those flecks of light that could be gold, and oh, he prays it has John's eyes… "John," he begins, and there is an urgency in his voice that demands attention. "I know we didn't plan this. I know… I know that there are many decisions we'll have to make. About my work, and, ah, things. But I also know - I, I feel that - there has never been anything more important than this. John, we're connected now, in another life, and I can feel it." He stops, chokes a little. "I can feel creation inside of me, and part of it belongs to you."

Sherlock's hands are desperately tight on John's forearms, and gently, softly, the other man pulls them off. But he does not step away, and he is still looking into Sherlock's eyes. His tongue darts out, drags moisture across his lips before he speaks.

"I know," he says and everything is suddenly exploding in Sherlock's mind in dazzling arrays of color and sound and light, because he is not alone in this, because he feels it, he understands it, too. "God, I can feel it, too," John laughs softly. His smile thins. "But I do… I need some time to think about this."

"What is there possibly to think about?" The words are leaving his mouth before he can cram them back in, and no, not good, stop, I didn't mean…

John is only shaking his head, though, warm eyes still blessedly open and sincere. "You've had, what, a few days, at least, to deal with knowing? I just… I need some time for that, too." He draws away, looks Sherlock over again. Opens his mouth, decides against it, and turns for his jacket.

But then at the door, he hesitates, and does look back. "I need you to know I'm not angry," he begins. "You do know that, yeah? That I really do just need some time?" Sherlock, still staring absently towards the kitchen with his back to John, nods.

He knows, he knows that John knows and they know, and so nothing else matters, not yet.

He'd give him forever, if he asked.

 

_____

 

Much later, he hears footsteps on the stairs, scrabbles upwards and leaps to the door, while something is leaping into his throat. But immediately his expression turns sour. Oh. Should have noticed that the footsteps were so much heavier than John's, and punctuated by the brass ring of an umbrella's tip.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't answer. Doesn't move away from the door, either. Remains glowering. It's never worked before; more tests must be done to see if those results are actually so annoyingly conclusive.

"Might I come in?"

Mycroft sighs when Sherlock continues to glare from the entryway. "Come now, don't be childish. What kind of example would that be setting?"

Sherlock's face remains impassive, even as the acid in his stomach begins to roil. Slowly, grudgingly, he moves away from the door, stalking over to the couch and draping himself across it. He does not offer his brother a seat. He could use the standing.

Mycroft sits anyway, altogether too relaxed and smug in John's chair. For seconds, a few minutes, even, they sit in stony silence. Sherlock amuses himself by imagining all the ways in which he could ensure that cream cakes are never manufactured in Britain again, and Mycroft has to spend precious time importing American brands that will never, ever be as good as his favorites were. He's sure someone, somewhere, owes him a large enough favor. Must think more on this.

True to form, Mycroft interrupts something at least marginally interesting for his own boring conversation. "Do you want to put your shirt back on?"

Sherlock looks down, though he realizes his shirt still lies discarded on the ground somewhere to his left. He decides to let Mycroft remain envious of his much more tailored physique a little while longer.  _That's legwork for you, you arrogant_ -

"So, I understand the good doctor knows now."

Mycroft changes tactics, and it works. Sherlock's smirk disappears almost instantly. Prying little  _prick_. "Do you really?"

It's worth it, that fractional lowering of Mycroft's eyebrows. "I, of course, knew a week before you did." Sherlock stops fiddling with the stray thread he's found on the back of the couch, but does not reply. Between them there is no need for stupid questions. A glare, however, will suffice. "But the real issue isn't knowing, is it? I wonder, you did this all yourself. So well-planned Sherlock, except you did forget to think whether or not he would want it."

Sherlock's feet hit the floor as he sits upwards dramatically, hair on the back of his neck bristling as he turns an absolutely savage face upon his brother. "Of course I thought about it." All the empty space inside his head was filled with John, all those deleted files making room for what mattered.

One of those fine eyebrows arches. "Then why did you not consult him?"

"Why don't you consult me when you bug my flat?" Sherlock snaps in irritation. No, his brother is not going to be the one with whom he has this conversation. If Sherlock has it his way, this conversation will never be had at all, staying safely shut up in some place where language does not exist and the mere thought of it cannot be conjured. He skulks over to the window, picking up his shirt along the way and tossing it back on in irritation. He stands and broods out at the busy London streets below while he pulls the buttons through. How much time did he give John, exactly, because it is past time that he came home.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, and that voice is so obnoxiously smooth and patient, and Sherlock can't stand it; not another second of that condescension, that knowledge that he's always winning, always ahead, and god, doesn't he know that - "I just want to know why you think this is a good idea."

"It's not a good idea," he replies, and his voice is low, thrumming with tension that's visible in all the lines of his back. He turns again towards his brother, locking their gazes. "It's the best idea, and neither of us have had better, and if you can't understand that then piss off, Mycroft."

Mycroft regards him with a keen eye for a few seconds, before he finally settles his hands in his lap. "Your doctor is coming home in a few minutes. When he does you'll have a rather… telling conversation. I just hope you've decided on the things that really matter to you. And the things that really matter to John."

"I can really decide those for myself, thanks." Locked in argument as they were, they don't notice until he's spoken that John is there. Of course Sherlock noticed; he always notices, in the way that his body has turned fractionally, his pulse has quickened, his head inclined. But even, sometimes, for him - especially where John is concerned - it takes his head a little longer to catch up.

The doctor gives them a little smile, then turns his full attention on Sherlock. "I'm thinking Angelo's for lunch. Will that do?"

John has effectively dismissed Mycroft from the conversation in the way he angles right back to Sherlock. Just them, their tiny square of space; their own square window of sky and light. Sherlock wants to wrap him up tight in his arms and not let go for a very, very long time, because how many times does one have to say that John is perfect, absolutely without flaw in the way he fits, he fits, he fits. Without any evidence it's difficult to say, but Sherlock thinks they're going to be okay.

He nods, and they share another tentative grin, before Mycroft clears his throat and rises. "Good to see you, Dr. Watson."

"And you, as always, Mycroft.," John nods, stepping back from the doorway as Mycroft makes his way over.

"How's that blog of yours? I do hope Sherlock hasn't been exciting you too terribly."

"Oh, it's all just fine. Very fine indeed." John pointedly grasps the open door.

He gazes down at John, critically looking him over, until at last he simply hums a little under his breath, says goodbye, and makes his way down the stairs. His umbrella swirls behind him, and below them, the door at last swings shut.

"Come on, then," John says, before they have time to speak anything else. And so they are following Mycroft's path, only Sherlock feels he has the added benefit that instead of a wooden handle in his hands, he has John's fingers wrapped around his own. He smiles softly to himself.

No, Mycroft doesn't always win.

 

_____

 

Angelo's is uncharacteristically quiet. A few patrons take the late lunch/early dinner in booths at the back, and there's a piercing-covered teen - moved in with girlfriend, who's going to kick him out within the week; they have two, maybe three, difficult to tell, cats - busing tables at the back, but little other activity. Angelo arrives at the door with his characteristic smile, shaking their hands and steering them to their regular table.

"Got a great new wine for you, an old friend knows a -" he begins cheerily, setting a candle in the middle of their table as he has faithfully done every day for the six years they've frequented his restaraunt.

John, watching as he lights it with that same amused look on his face suddenly frowns. "Um, no," he cuts in, and Angelo looks at him, surprised. "No wine."

Angelo's brows are still deeply furrowed, but the creases smooth themselves over as swiftly as they arrived. "Oh! Yes, it's still probably too early for wine. Later, then." And with that he shuffles back to the kitchen.

Sherlock turns back to John. "It's not because it's too early for wine, is it," Sherlock asks, and though both the implied and stated are perfectly logical reasons, he imagines he understands John's real meaning.

John confirms it with a slight nod of his head. He looks down at where his fingers are clenched around the rolled silverware, finally lifts his gaze again. "While I was out walking, I thought about some things."

"Me. Pregnant." There's no need for secrecy. Nothing to hide, not anymore. No need to dodge the issues. Even so, the words on his tongue are foreign. Strange to say aloud and leave hanging in the air between them.

"Well, yeah," John agrees. "But deeper than that, Sherlock. This is a really, really serious thing. It's not like we're leading lives that are exactly... conducive to child-rearing. And on top of that we have… well, there's finances for one thing. And my bit at the surgery - that'll interfere with a kid. And we'd also have to lay out some ground rules about your… habits."

This, Sherlock had expected. This was easy, and he relaxed back against the chair a little. "No nicotine patches, I'm guessing."

"Not a chance."

"You'll probably insist more forcefully on my nutritional habits."

"Naturally."

"More regular sleeping schedule."

"But of course."

"I assumed." Sherlock throws him a smug grin, but John holds up a finger.

"Ah, ah, there's more than that. No more dangerous chemicals in the house. And no more for you at the lab."

Sherlock blanches. "What? Even now?"

"Yes. I'm bloody terrified something already happened with the fumes today as it is."

Something inside him twinges again. Ah. Protective instincts, perfectly natural, somehow arousing rather than annoyingly possessive as they should be. He does, however, bristle at the thought of parting with his things. He'll need them for cases. To solve murders. That's what they do. Unless John thinks… oh. No, no, no, he has to stop that thought, right now.

"I'll still be working murders, of course."

John hesitates, then laughs a little. "You and I both know that I can't stop you. I don't think all of London could stop you getting to a crime scene. To be honest, Sherlock, I can't make you do any of these things. This is all your choice, and I…" He takes a deep breath. "I support you, even though I won't always agree with you. But yeah, I'll insist on some things because you'll just bloody forget. All I'm asking for is a little precaution," he says at last, raking a hand through his hair. "This is going to require a lot of lifestyle changes on your part, Sherlock, and you need to be committed to that. This is… this is a baby, we're talking about, Sherlock. A baby." There's a breath of wonder on that last syllable, and Sherlock wants to kiss it from him and see if it tastes like what he feels inside his head.

"Okay," he agrees, and just like that, shouldn't it be harder; shouldn't he resist? He doesn't know, not enough data, but he feels lighter for having made John happy and for getting his way. Their talk moves back into other things, the easy rhythm of their old life melding into the new. Shouldn't be this easy, but it is; why, why is it easy? John, John; because he anchors him even as they sway, sway, sway in the deeps, looking out at the murky waters towards the light on the horizon.

"We've still got more on the other front to cover, just so you know," John says without warning, as they're indulging in some celebratory desserts (more grudgingly on Sherlock's part). He pokes his cake-clad fork in Sherlock's direction. "It can wait, and we'll learn more about this together. But don't think we've said all that need be said."

Sherlock regards him in silence a while longer, absently tonguing the base of his spoon. No, not nearly. So much more he has to show John, about how this feels and what it means. And though John is all boring practicalities, from the moment they met there was something different, and he'll come to see it, too.

That there are miracles, in the incredulous, soft smiles John keeps sending his way, in the exquisite craftsmanship of the human body, maybe even in something as simple as the light London rain that begins to fall outside.


	4. Chapter 4

_(Thursday, October 20th; Week 5 continued)_

The following morning, they don't have time to get down to any of the other business John had mentioned. Lestrade phones Sherlock, that light takes to his eyes, and they're immediately whisking off to the scene.

It was an American photographer, early twenties, art-school project trip that had left her bludgeoned to death on a forest floor. Seemed your typical murder on first glance, but the note left by her assailant added a whole new element to the case.

"What do you mean, 'note?' Lestrade asks, and though his eyes rake over the scene - scattered and crumbling leaves of late fall surrounding the trunks of gnarled trees, muddy grounds from the light and melted snow - he finds nothing.

Sherlock smirks. "Come now, Lestrade. This is an obvious one." It had been the first thing to jump out at him, from the moment he stepped into the clearing. All of it, seamlessly arranged, a perfect execution that would lead them straight to their killer. And so evident, so clear. But the collective Yard continues to fix him with blank stares, and he sighs. His finger point to the body, stiff and cold in the center of the circle of trees.

"Look, use your eyes and your minds. She's the note." He marches over to the body, crouches by the pale hand thrown above her head. "The positioning is deliberate," he announces, feather-light fingertips brushing over her skin. "If I'm not mistaken -" which I'm not, almost never am, "- that's the ASL for 'him.' Granted, she's not in motion, but considering she's deaf, it seems like a deliberate move on the murderer's part."

For his part, Lestrade only blinks a few times before heaving a defeated sigh, asking, "So, who's the 'him?' And wait, deaf?"

"Hearing aid; really, do keep up. Footprints suggest a party of three entered this clearing. Her foot size is, what?"

"Seven," John supplies from where he's examining the victim.

Sherlock nods, pleased but unsurprised his deduction was correct. "Those are evident here, and here," he says, getting up and moving about the edges of the trees. "But further out we have size ten, male, I'd say a hiking booth of some sort, but the treads are different. Two males, same size feet, different shoes. One of them is your murderer, while the other…" His brow furrows, and his eyes unfocus slightly as the possibilities whir away before his eyes. Pair? No; signs of struggle. Betrayed accomp - no, there was something else, something… ah yes, the hearing device. "…while the other has been abducted by him."

He rounds on the inspector, holds the aid before his face. "She was deaf. Required an interpreter, especially as a foreigner. The man who accompanied her is the one you're going to be looking for, though, who the murderer is, well…difficult to tell…"

Lestrade's voice snaps him back from where he's already drifting off, the mad realms of possibility stretching before him. So wonderfully empty, even in their yearning to be filled. "But you do have ideas?"

A wild grin stretches across his face. "Hundreds."

 

 _______

 

 _(Thursday, October 27th; Week 6)_

It's been a week, idea-less and sleepless, when John finds him with the nicotine patch up the side of his arm.

The clearing had been analyzed time and again in Sherlock's brain. He'd run it through until it was dry, but there was nothing, and suddenly that empty space was all just a great white room; too bright, blinding and burning its way through his mind till he was consumed in his desire to fill it. Millions of questions, all jumping out at him, the biggest and brightest being who who  _WHO_? But answers were few and far between.

Meanwhile John paced, and fretted, wondering at the back of his mind at all times - no matter how hard he tried to stop himself; no matter what Sherlock said - where the young man was. Another innocent, still alive, still without rescue.

And at all times, but especially when he hears him prowling the kitchen at night, muttering and sighing to himself as his steps grow more rushed and frustrated, he worries for what it is doing for Sherlock.

There is no worry now, though. Only a rage that grows white-hot when he sees the outline pressed against the silk shirt.

"Goddammit, Sherlock," he absolutely hisses, and he latches onto the arm and shoves the sleeve upwards. A square stares back at him, while Sherlock's guilty eyes meet his own. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He bites his tongue in attempting to stop the sarcasm he knows is not right. Wrong, very wrong, stop. New defense. Don't be dense, John, this is for the greater good. "But John, I need -" Sherlock begins to plead, but the way John viciously rips it from his arm cuts him off. It stings, little pinpricks of sensation bursting behind his eyes. It  _stings_.

"No! You don't need any of this." His other hand latches onto the back of Sherlock's head and pulls it to rest against his own. He stares fiercely into the detective's eyes, and for a moment, he feels a shiver of fear run up his spine. "You, your own brain, I've seen what it can do. But more than that - god, Sherlock, use it to think about this. It may be one patch, but I know the drugs that thing is working into your body. I know the drugs that are heading into your bloodstream and… and straight into our kid, Sherlock. Is there anything more important to you than keeping it safe? Because as a parent now, you need to tell me if you're going to be able to put everything else behind that. Because nothing - absolutely nothing, do you hear me, not the drugs or the cases or any of it - comes before that kid. And if you don't get that, then maybe… maybe this isn't the right thing to do right now."

Everything in him throws itself against his skin in revolt, and he can feel his insides clawing at his edges in screaming desperation. No, never, John, I'd never -

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and the sound is broken. It all is crashing over his head, and he sinks to his knees in front of John, burying his face in his jumper to block it all out - every last thought and sound and sight, everything except this. John hesitates, then threads his fingers through Sherlock's messy curls with a sigh.

"Don't be sorry, just don't do it again," he says tiredly. "I just… a few days ago, I didn't even know. And now, this? You can't jeopardize it, Sherlock. I know you care; god, you frightened me that first day with how much you care. But you need to be able to show it in the ways that matter."

The words are thick in his throat, like molasses, but bitter. "I can't - I'm not sure I know how," he admits, and for a moment he allows himself to feel how it's been so frustrating - all these thoughts and feelings, and he knows most of it is hormones, chemicals; but at the same time there's this sense that he's wrong, somehow, for being unable to speak what must be said, and reveal it. He fumbles over his tongue and when he trips over it, it hurts, and this is an issue in nothing else. Just this one thing, and why, why this one thing?

"It's important to me," he tries, and it helps that the words are muffled and quiet in the thick wool. "It's… it's all I think about. It's always there, I can't delete it; not that I want to," he hurries. "But John, is this always how it feels? To - to l…to - "

"Yes."

"I forgot."

"I know."

"It won't happen again."

"No, it won't. And that, Sherlock. That's what matters." He leans down, presses a kiss into Sherlock's hair. "We're going to be okay," he whispers to the tangled threads.

Sherlock isn't sure about that much, anymore, but he's always been sure of John.

"Christ, when's the last time you washed your hair?" John asks, tugging him gently upwards. As he's pulled back to his feet, Sherlock notes the circles under his eyes with a pang, and their tired, red-tinged edges. No, he could not let things get this far again. A renewed vigor surges in his gut, a quiet spark of certainty. He is so determined to do this right. Determined not to fail, because he is Sherlock Holmes, and he does not fail, and he will not fail John in this especially. He will not.

"John, I." He swallows, and this should not be difficult. Tries again. "I understand that before I did not seem like the sort who would. Who would want a child. But now - I do want it, John. I will do whatever it takes for it."

John regards him silently, takes in the wide and earnest eyes and the trembling in his hands, before he pulls Sherlock forwards. "C'mon," he whispers into his ear, tilting his head alongside Sherlock's. "Let's get you a bath, then we'll come down and look the case files over again, together. Alright?"

Sherlock nods, but it is a long time before they move.

 

 _______

 

 _(Friday, October 28th; Week 6 continued)_

The following morning, the murderer is arrested, and his terrified and grateful hostage rescued.

Student - murderer - denied access to the photography contest their victim had won. Bitter after finding her involved in a cheating scandal, both on him, her then-partner, and in winning. Combined psychological issues escalated their enmity. Devised elaborate scheme luring her to Europe, but had not planned for the witness. Took him in an effort to earn a ransom that would allow him to continue his artistic work, and as punishment for the relationship he had mistakenly imagined to be going on between the victim and her interpreter. So human, the whole case stank of it. Humans and their follies, as it always is.

Surprisingly simple, really. All things were, in the end.

And until then, it will continue to trouble him, in why it was so difficult.

 

 _______

 

 _(Sunday, October 30th; Week 7)_

"Okay," John says at last, as they sit together on the couch one Sunday afternoon. Turning off the telly, he focuses his attention on the man next to him. "We should do some groundwork."

Sherlock sighs. Boring. Unpleasantly necessary. "You've been thinking about how to approach this subject for the past half hour at least. You're all… tense."

"Yeah, well. There are some important things to talk about, and we need to start taking them seriously." The patch incident hangs in the air between them, as well as the unspoken agreement to ensure it does not happen again.

"Okay. Ready, set, you start," Sherlock says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

There's a pause. "We're taking turns on this now?" His voice is amused, and Sherlock cracks an eye open to see what's so funny.

"What? I imagine ground work requires laying all the rules out."

"You're making it into a game."

"More efficient, and more entertaining. Problem?"

"I just, I thought we were going to discuss… oh, I need to stop thinking this is going to be normal at all."

"Please, John. Normal is so -"

"Boring, yeah, yeah, I know. But let's just pretend to talk like regular adults for a while, please?"

Sherlock waves a non-committal hand, and though John huffs in exasperation, he settles back to think. "Alright, well, first I have to ask - how long were you planning this?"

Sherlock looks innocent, but John spies the tension in his shoulders. "Planning what?"

"Please, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't just  _get_  pregnant. And I might have found your pregnancy websites booked on my computer. At the time I guessed it was for a case, but, well." He smiles just a touch too widely. "I was wrong."

"Obviously."

"So?" John prods, ignoring the jab. He shifts on the couch so that Sherlock's head falls against his shoulder, and he can get an arm around his frame.

If he's honest, 97 days. It'd been a case involving the negotiation of two hostages. Estranged father, abducts his two children from their hardworking mother and legal guardian. Classic case, not counting the father's legal status as insane, and his later attempts to threaten the children's lives for no apparent reason. Neither John nor Sherlock saw any sense in it, but it was John who stayed up the extra hours, John who pushed and pushed and pushed him to make it count. And finally, John who'd pulled the children from the smoke and flames and hadn't left their side, even in the long ambulance rides back to London.

He remembers rounding the corner of the hospital to see John crouched in front of the battered, tired, but ultimately healthy and safe, children. He was explaining something with his hands, and they were laughing, all three of them. And for once, Sherlock had felt a pang, the lack of knowledge. What secrets did they share, that made their faces so alight? John, especially, radiant… my, how he came alive in those instances, and how strangely… smaller, he had seemed, when their mother had come to take them away.

He'd puzzled over it for days, mulled it over in his mind for weeks afterwards. Decided he liked that look on John's face. Decided he wanted it to stay. And for millions more reasons, innumerable decisions that simply pointed and said yes, this is the way, follow it with everything, he did, and they wound up here.

He says none of this, only gives him a cryptic smile and says, "Roughly three months."

"Jesus," John breathes, and the hand rubbing circles along his collar pauses in its ministrations. "So, had we been…ah…trying then, for a while?"

"There was no 'we,'" Sherlock huffs. "At that point it was largely me seducing you at every ample opportunity."

"I - Oh, god, I remember that," the man beside him groans, helpless giggles leaving his throat. "I wondered what had gotten into you. So I guess that isn't going to continue, then?" he asks, and more there's a bit of hope shading his tone. Sherlock throws him his best  _don't be daft_ look, but John's ignoring it to ask another question.

"So, how far along are you, anyway?"

Sherlock laces his fingers across his lap, flipping through calendars in his mind. "This will be the start of the seventh week."

He clears his throat at the sudden look of… well, awe is really the only word. Something inside him twists. He understands; how marvelous this creation is - the division and growth and life going on just under the surface; how remarkable it is even in these early days - especially now. Knows the miracle of it, just as he does, and if there were any lingering doubts they are all gone now. Evaporated. Deleted entirely from the system until they had ceased to exist at all.

He blinks against a sudden tightness in his chest. "At any rate, how is this planning? We seem to be looking backwards rather than forwards."

"Right, right," John sighs, settling down, though the corner of his lips still twitches upwards. "A lot of things we can take as they come, but we need to start talking clinics. I know, I'm a doctor," John says, anticipating Sherlock's protests, "but we need someone who's really focused on this sort of area. Knows what they're doing, and such."

Sherlock grimaces - they'll take away from valuable case time - but agrees on the basis of his earlier promises, allowing John to carry on to the next subject. "Then there's work, of course."

Sherlock almost immediately balks. The thought of abandoning his mental pursuits is almost staggering, and the thought of being trapped and irritable with nothing to do; no exercises to keep out the vast swathes of useless information, is terrifying. "I'm not going to give it up," he says firmly, sinking resolutely into the cushions.

"I suspected as much. But you should know, from a medical perspective, that you'll likely be more disturbed by crime scene smells. Chemicals will make you woozier than you're used to."

Sherlock's face could curdle milk. "Unless I am dead myself, I will not stop working."

"Please. Death couldn't stop you." John straightens a bit. "There's to be no chasing after criminals, though. At least in the later stages."

The hand he's fluttering over Sherlock's shoulder is becoming very distracting, and he murmurs a half-hearted response. The sensation of those fingers is unexpectedly intense and, as he's becoming more certain, deliberate.

"John," he says after a while, when the hand has taken to ghosting down over his arms. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Is it working?"

"Paltry attempt at best."

"What? The pregnancy talk doesn't work for you?" he jokes, turning his head so that his nose just faintly brushes along Sherlock's cheek. "Just trying to make it more… interesting, for you."

"Hmm, you can do better," Sherlock responds, and John answers his grin with one of his own.

"Thought you'd never ask."

He slots his lips against Sherlock's, who breathes out faintly in pleasant surprise. His long fingers come up to slide into John's hair, pulling at the short strands in an attempt to bring him closer. John shifts, his other hand coming up to push Sherlock gently backwards. They sink back into the cushions, Sherlock humming at the pleasing weight of John over his body, even as John swallows it with a sigh. His tongue probes past his teeth, sensually combing the edges of his mouth. The soft sounds Sherlock is making turn into quiet moans, and his hands come up to rest more insistently on John's hips, sliding up his shirt to whisper across the heated skin.

John, supporting himself with a hand braced against the armrest, leans away. He's smiling, and Sherlock's brow furrows.

"What?" he questions, irked that John has stopped and that he seems happy about that annoying fact.

"Just… you. Us. God, we're going to be parents." He leans in and kisses Sherlock again, but this time deep and hard as his tongue licks an absolutely dirty line along his own, his lower body grinding down and twisting.

"Ah," Sherlock manages when they part for breath. "Typical reaction for the father of offspring. Meant to increase survival of the species, what with protec -"

"Maybe you're just bloody irresistible as it is," John interrupts. One hand comes up to curl alongside Sherlock's face, knuckles brushing along the prominent bones of his cheek. His face turns thoughtful. "And yeah, maybe biology does have something for it. Maybe the thought of you having my kid is just…fantastic. Beyond compare."

 _Yes, John, he understands, good John, so much more than everyone else, so much better._

They're his last thoughts before John is sinking them down again, in the moments where he forgets to think, or it's just easier not to.


	5. Chapter 5

_(Friday, November 11th; Week 8)_

About a week ago, Sherlock remembers thinking that this was the greatest thing in the world. It still is, undoubtedly. The thought of a flesh and blood being that is parts of him and parts of John still sends shivers up his spine that are not entirely unpleasant. But he might have, ah, overlooked some of the… repercussions.

He heaves over the toilet bowl, long legs sprawled out behind him as his arms tremble on the rim. He's uncomfortable on the tiles, and there is sweat on his brow and his stomach won't stop roiling, tossing and turning and for god's sake, he doesn't even eat. What is there to reject? He shifts crossly, but the movement only sends another spasm through his gut. Groaning, he hangs his head low, rests it on the cool ivory and shuts his eyes.

So many new sensations, all at once. He's catalogued them all before, in flu and pneumonia and the various diseases of childhood, but the fact that they stem from a new cause is interesting - or would be, if they were not so unpleasantly debilitating. Now, he notes them all, prepared for the next time this happens. He wonders why no one has invented a workable cure for this sort of thing, but then again, not being pregnant is the only cure, considering antibiotics are very unfortunately out of the question. He could probably do it, he muses. When he's not too busy being subjected to this himself.

He whimpers - then frowns, because that is a sound he is most definitely not accustomed to making - but it seems most of the symptoms are beginning to pass. About bloody time, too. Unsteadily, he reaches for the counter, and drags himself upwards.

His mirror image stares back from the glass on the wall, disheveled and wan. It's not a face he's accustomed to seeing, even from his Uni days of… experimentation. He rakes a hand through his untidy hair, turning to catch each angle and frowning again at their state. After a moment of simply watching himself stare back, his hands go on impulse to his dress shirt and pull it from where it's tucked in. He unbuttons the silk, and turns on his side.

Still, nothing.

All that messy business of symptoms, still nothing to show for it.

Even then…

His hands span the width, eyes darting critically over the pale, seamless, flat, expanse. Despite everything, he smiles.

…still worth it.

"Sherlock?" The voice rings through the apartment, just moments after the door below slams shut. Quickly, Sherlock tucks himself back in, as John's footsteps come rushing up the stairs. He's leaning casually against the sink when John comes into view.

"Hey, are you -" he stops in his tracks in the hallway, eyebrows drawing together. "What happened to you?"

"What? Oh, nothing, just a…nap."

"…A nap. You took a nap," John says at last, disbelief coloring his tone. "At eight in the morning. And your hair looks like that? What'd, you, have a nightmare or something?" Though he says it with a hint of laughter, there's an underlying note of seriousness. John has felt those terrors in the night, creeping up along his bed and stealing into his dreams, and Sherlock quickly shakes his head.

"No, no, I…"

"You're sweating, too."

"Oh, I'm fine, really, I -"

"Sherlock."

There's that hint of command. That secret bit of John Sherlock's only guessed at, but at all times lurks beneath his calm, utterly civilian exterior. Sherlock attempts to steel himself against it, but with most of his resolve spent on keeping his tea down, he sighs. When did John become so adept at seeing through his fronts? Must comb through old files.

"I may have experienced a bout of, ah. Morning sickness."

John nods, but his eyes flash concern. "You alright?"

"Yes, of course, fine now. We should g-"

"Nope, not so fast." John says, and oh, this is so typically John, so annoyingly, endearingly careful and protective. He expected this, tried to escape it, and failed. John was everywhere, now, like water, and it was a bit like drowning out in the open sea. There was nothing left to hold onto other than more and more ocean. "You were sick?"

He grimaces, but tells the truth. "Yes. Obviously."

"And you're feeling better now."

"Extraordinarily." His stomach gives a weak little nudge, as if to spite him, but remains blessedly silent. For now.

"And you're not just saying that so I'll let you go to the crime scene?"

"John," Sherlock says, eyeing him with just that side of condescension. "You said it yourself, you're not going to be able to stop me going to crime scenes."

It's John's turn to pull a frown. "I'm just trying to look after you, Sherlock. You don't want to strain yourself, or end up getting sick all over the evidence, now do you?"

He looks offended at the accusation. "As if I would be that careless." He shakes his head a little, looks back at John. "Your concern is…good, but I assure you I'm quite capable of caring for myself at the scene. Please, John," he says more softly. I'm letting you in, and it's more than I've done for anyone else. Letting them care, it was never worth it, but you. Please understand, please know…

"Alright," John says at last, the concern and resignation still warring in his gaze. "But you're telling me the moment you feel faint, and so help me I will drag you out kicking and screaming and puking over my shoulder."

They turn to leave, and as they're squeezing through the door Sherlock smiles down at him. "Oh, John, always the romantic."

 

_____

 

It's on the way home from the scene that John first brings up clinics.

"What? Why?" Sherlock asks in response to his query, snapping out of his thoughts. Usually, John leaves him to think in the cab after a new crime, running his thoughts all over the information gained from the scene; processing, concluding, finding all the ties to break through and make it make sense. His mind unravels it all, lays it out before him and draws a map. Now he's foggy, disconnected as John tries to drag him out of his head.

"I just think it's time we consulted a professional."

Sherlock shakes his head, confused. "You're a doctor."

"Yes, but that's not my specialty. You need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I've always managed just fine doing things the first time on my own. That is how one learns, is it not?"

John sighs. "I should have waited. Should have bought you fingers or a foot or something before bringing this up," he mumbles, passing a hand over his face. "All I'm saying is, we should go in and just make sure we're doing all the right things. Diets, calendars… that sort of thing."

"Mmm, fine," Sherlock mutters at last, and whether or not it's to get him to shut up rather than actually being interested in a physical, it's something, and John settles back in gratified silence against the seat.

 

 _______

 

 _(Thursday, November 17th; Week 9)_

Sherlock is not as accepting when, the following Thursday, John's making apologies to Lestrade and crowding Sherlock towards the door of the morgue.

Sherlock turns back from where he's being herded, his eyebrows raised. This is frankly alarming; John knows they're not done and he has not finished examining that woman's rashes, and yet he seems intent on getting them out the door as quickly as possible. "John, what on earth -"

"C'mon, we're already late for that…thing," John says, mindful of Lestrade's presence in the room, but Sherlock remains, for once - and disturbingly so - ignorant. His eyebrows jump higher under his hairline, and he reaches out to cling onto the door frame as John presses up against him.

"What thing?" Sherlock snaps, and oh, he's forgotten how much he despises being kept in the dark. Combine that with taking away valuable time with a corpse, well…

John's looking at him expectantly, though he doesn't seem to be enjoying his rare upper hand. He just looks impatient, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. "That thing, Sherlock. That doctor thing. With the tests."

John is not making sense. Sherlock is starting to be concerned over his well-being and perhaps his own need for tests when a hand snakes between them and rests against his belly, pressing gently. John arches an eyebrow.

Ah. That doctor.

His eyebrows crash from the heights to land tightly across his eyes as he looms over John. "Reschedule."

"Wha - no," John says in annoyance, continuing to pry in vain at the hands Sherlock has fastened to the doorway.

"We're not done here." He tries to brush past John, but for all his size he could be a brick wall.

"We're already late," John repeats.

They glower at one another, until at last Lestrade coughs pointedly and jerks them both from their staring. Turning to look, they find the detective inspector staring between them, smiling wryly with his hands in the pockets of his long coat.

"I don't want to know," he says at last, rocking back on his heels. "But your body will still be here when you get back." As Sherlock begins to protest, Lestrade waves them out the door with a knowing look. "I won't let Anderson touch it, I promise."

John sighs in relief; Sherlock continues to sulk. But they're losing time as it is, and this could prove valuable to another suspect's alibi. Bollocks to the alibi, he's desperate to see what pattern the rash is forming, but that should at least mean something in the eyes of the others. But no, apparently not, apparently this is more pressing despite the fact that they have nine bloody months left to sort it out. Well, eight.

He sends his best glare at Lestrade as he's at last overpowered and taken from the room, John calling out a blessing behind him and promises to return as soon as they're done.

Sherlock pouts the entire cab ride to the clinic, curled up against the window and decidedly not looking at John, who hums contentedly and doesn't give any notice. Sometimes, his cheerful toleration is just rude.

Before long, they're stepping out of the cab. Sherlock is instantly analyzing, absorbing the information around him like a sponge, sorting it out and processing it until it's something useful. It tells him that the expecting usually feel safe here, supported by their tucked away location in a good part of town, that the employees wash their hands regularly, that the majority of patients here consist of women under thirty-two, and that they're in the midst of some new technological developments underscored by a decline in employees available to learn them. All that gleaned before they're even through the door, and it already seems the typical pregnancy clinic. Hmm, dull, but then John would probably find that safest. To hell with safe.

He strides ahead of John, arriving at the front desk and plastering a cheery smile across his face before John can stop him.

"Hello, gorgeous!" he says warmly in what John calls his Fake Voice, reaching out a hand and shaking that of the woman behind the desk. Slightly taken aback, but with a pleased flush creeping up her neck, she greets him as well.

"Hello, sir. What can I -"

"Oh, I'm just so thrilled to be here. Really, really - wow, is that an actual uterine model? Fascinating. You know, my partner, he's a doctor, but he doesn't have one of these. Prefers to do things the hands on way, if you know what I mean," he says, throwing her a sly wink. "Not that he's actually seen my uterus, oh no, wouldn't want to give you some creepy idea or other. But we are very open about our bodies, have to admit. Why, just the other day, we were out in the park, very public, and let me tell you -"

"Hi, sorry," John cuts in, and his face has turned an alarming and very, very amusing shade of red. "He's - well. We have an appointment for two?" John sidesteps any explanation, but the woman lets it slide, though she sports an amused grin.

"Ah, yes, you must be Dr. Watson. And Mr. Holmes, I presume?" the woman queries, and though still slightly pink around the edges, she appears unphased. He decides to launch into another publicly-inappropriate tirade as soon as he gets the chance, but John's firm grip on his upper arm as he marches him towards the waiting room chairs seems to leave that firmly out of the question.

"You couldn't just be normal?" John asks through gritted teeth as he thumbs angrily through a magazine.

"You couldn't have waited until I was done with the body?" Sherlock tosses back with a sneer. "Besides, my normal would require revealing the five extra pounds she's put on in the last week as a result of a horrendous break-up with the computer tech we passed on the way in, and possibly also mentioning the utterly rampant feline addiction of the woman behind the other desk, and the fact that she can no longer afford to pay for cat litter. Oh, and then there's that man in the opposite seat, who dropped out of med school to follow the woman he loved only to discover she was a lesbian. Yes, normal day in the office, I grant you."

He knows it's snide, and John would probably think it cruel, but it is the truth and that is normal and if that's when he wants, then Sherlock will give it to him. He can practically hear the steam sizzling from John's ears; if such an event were able to happen, Sherlock doesn't doubt that it would in this moment. "You said you'd do this."

"Yes, but I never said I'd interrupt my work for it."

"Are you always going to put us second?"

Sherlock goes very, very still. What two seconds ago was a petty argument has changed drastically, and for a moment Sherlock can only stare, wide-eyed, at John, who continues to resolutely scan the pages. He is increasingly distracted by the hands that prop the glossy inserts up - ever so slightly, they tremble. Sherlock swallows, and is quite uncertain as to whether or not air is still traveling through his lungs. Moments ago, John was in the very life around him, but now he feels starved for his presence.  _No, John, how could I ever_. Sometimes it shocks him, that even after everything, John still doesn't know.

A woman in her early forties is beckoning them over before Sherlock has a proper chance to respond, and it isn't long before they're sitting in a room in silence.

"John, I -"

"Sherlock -"

They stop, and it's awkward and horrible and Sherlock hates this; hates that it isn't right when this should be special and -

Oh.

Perhaps he'd overlooked John's sympathies.

But even then, as he opens his mouth to speak, another doctor comes in, and Sherlock almost growls. The timing here is horrid. As are the affairs of this office, but he figures it best not to voice those, at least not yet. Arsenal, later, when they pull out the truly horrifying tests he's likely to be subjected to.

He despises poking and prodding. More so when John seems most unwilling to be there through it. He's developed a particularly unhealthy need for John's comfort in uncertain situations. Woolly jumpers, blue eyes, soft skin… everything is suddenly unbearably unfair, what with John sitting only feet away and looking so unreachable, and he doesn't know how to stop this.

The woman begins with dull questions that he answers on auto-pilot. His mind is still focused on John, the real puzzle here. Unravel him, just like everyone else - so much more easily said than done. Always, always the case, but never were there any answers.

Nutrition? Fine. Health? Fine. Social Behavior? Not so fine, but he doesn't say it. Mental Health? John's opinion was worth more than his on that one, a very high order, but he's willing to give it - if only John would stop being so strange and silent in his seat, and come back from those places he couldn't reach.

"Stop," he says suddenly, and the doctor, droning on about some sort of nutritional plan he needed to embark in with desperate urgency, looks relieved. Her face turns less certain when he orders her from the room, but with a final look between the couple, she darts away as quickly as possible. She was coming off a new father of triplets. Triplets. Understandable fatigue and stress; John will be sorry to have burdened her. But they have their own weights to sort through.

Sherlock turns toward John, who is still staring absently at the ground.

He drags his metal chair closer, and on an impulse grabs John's hand and slides it along his wrist.

As a doctor, taking the pulse was an action of comfort - it was quick and easy, and in the army, that often saved lives. But it was also a measure of control, as he could press his fingers into the skin in a timeless, repeated action, to find out the most important thing. Taking a pulse came naturally to John, and with second nature came a sort of comfort in the routine.

It helps, now, in the way his fingers slot over that familiar crest and feel the thump, thump, thump of life dancing just beneath Sherlock's pale skin. He's not sure what he's playing at, and wordlessly looks up. Sherlock is again shocked at those tired rings, those dark circles, and though it's horrible - awful, terrible, of the worst degree - he finds comfort in that he is not in this alone.

"John," he says at last, voice low and quietly urgent. "The pulse you feel is made by my heart pumping blood throughout my entire body. My A-positive blood runs through my veins, coded in my DNA for the express purpose of keeping me alive. Your blood, also A-positive, does the same in yours. If I'm not mistaken, as the circulatory system of our child develops, it will contain a combination of both our blood. It will be part you, and part me - the parts of us, together, will function solely to spread life throughout our child's veins. Don't tell me you think I'd share that with just anyone."

John's face crumples, and before he knows it, Sherlock has been gathered into his arms. "You are such a git," he says, shoulders shaking. "And I love you so much, and god, Sherlock…" He crushes Sherlock's frail frame against him, buries his nose against the side of his head, inhaling deeply. Though he should feel restricted, and knows it, when it's John it's anything but, and he sinks into the touch with a breathy exhale.

"The work is important to me," he says hoarsely after a while. "It was all I had for years. But I have made room for you."  _I've cleared it away, all the rooms, all the useless clutter and blank white space alike, just to fill it with you you you_. "Is that enough? Can you share?"

It's not right, he doesn't say it correctly. Can't communicate, as if there's a break between what he feels and what he says.

But John, with his hands resting over the drumming in his wrist, the same song that courses through his body, knows, and that is all that matters.

 

_____

 

Later, when doctors have been apologized to and bodies have been seen and the milk has been bought, they come back to the flat, where Sherlock apologizes with his tongue and his hands, John accepting in the give and take they've come to develop so well between them. He might still not quite be sure what it is he's saying, but it counts, and he can feel it, and taste it on John's lips.

Afterwards, John lies with lazy hands stroking across Sherlock's skin. "You're still flat," he comments drowsily, drawing nonsensical patterns that make him shiver.

"According to the clinician, I might not start to show till well into my second trimester."

John slides down his body, tongues the cooling skin there, following the lines he created with his nails and just skirting their edges. "Well, I hope you start soon," he whispers against his skin, pressing faint kisses against the dip of his waist while Sherlock works not to strain into the touch. Too much, too soon, barrage of sensation, but anything for you, anything…

Sherlock can feel the smile John sends across his skin, a glorious wave of warmth that tingles all the way through his toes. "I want… I want the world to know."

Sherlock props himself up on his elbows. "Logically, it's best to wait until the twelve week mark, just in -"

John is already shaking his head. "Nope, nope, don't you even start, we're not -"

"-case we lose it."

John mirrors the fierceness Sherlock feels clenching in his own gut at the thought as he lunges back up Sherlock's body. "Never. Not in a million years. I will… I'll do anything," he breathes, and that dark blue gaze locks firmly onto his own, and does not let go. "But we are not losing this baby."

"Glad we agree," Sherlock mumbles, and they share a smile, able to shrug into light-hearted jokes as they flee from the thoughts no one ever wants to face.

John sinks into his lips with a murmur that might be his name or a thousand other prayers. Sherlock decides not to worry and responds in kind.

 

_____

 

Life moves on in Baker Street, just as life moves on in its infinite changes and twists within his body. There are still people who kill other people and think they'll be able to get away with it, and Sherlock is still there, army doctor by his side, to prove them wrong. There are still wars and famines, there is love, and loss, and though Sherlock may find himself wondering how it all goes so unchanged when everything, everything is changing, he is unsurprised. Because even here, in their tiny piece of the world's fabric, the past remains tangled in its threads. John still grumbles when he finds his favorite jumper in a bucket of thick, gooey tar on the kitchen table ("Really? For a case? What possible case could that be, Sherlock, or did I miss the day I died in some horrific street-paving accident and my clothes were the only evidence you had to go on? Really now?"), Mrs. Hudson still dusts their flat when they're working ("Not your housekeeper!"), the tea still needs boiling and the telly still shows the same dull programmes and sometimes Sherlock has to absently stroke his skin and reassure himself that any of it, any of it at all, feels any different.

But there are differences, which intensify with each passing day.

There's a calendar now tacked to the wall, and sloppy red X's in the corners mark off the days. John, doctor that he was, was determined to monitor the changes of each week, and sometimes his notes would color the edges:  _morning sickness intensified by smell of cooking bacon. Intense craving for mint-flavored anything, at two - in the morning. Snapped at very rudely today; Tuesdays are really bad days for as of yet undiscovered factors. And Sherlock is a pregnant prat._ Walking into the flat, it wasn't uncommon to find a stack of books for the parent-to-be perched on the coffee table, as John's reading habits increased exponentially. They spent more evenings than ever reading together, their long silences punctuated only by the turning of pages, and occasional discussions on points they found notable. Sherlock is roused more and more often from silent contemplation to talk about things, from rooms to finances to what he's eating and more. He finds he doesn't mind as much as he first imagined he would. There's an ease to it, a flow, and somehow Sherlock understands that his initial suspicions were correct - this was so vital, so utterly important, and he can't imagine life now without anything else. The violence of his feelings sometimes comes as a shock. He blames it on the hormones.

Some of it is harder, though. Every day, Sherlock feels the flush of his blood in his veins, as he yearns for the pull of substances he can no longer have, and still more aches and pains befall him. He's sleeping more (it was frankly alarming when he woke up with the sun), and sitting more, what with his ankles as useless as they're desiring to become. There's more nausea, his stomach sloshing around even when it's empty, and more moments when he has to excuse himself from crime scenes, leaving John to explain the violent stomach flu he's developed while he provides the physical demonstration.

John listens to a lot of grumbling, now, but it isn't anything new.

Slowly, though, the changes in all parts of their lives are making themselves known, creeping into the forefront with soft, sweeping steps.

And there comes the day where he turns, rests his slender hands against the rising globe of his abdomen, and sees it for himself.

 

 _______

 

 _(Saturday, November 26th; Week 10)_

"John. John. John!"

"Yes, alright, what is - oh. Oh, my god. When - ?"

"I'd only just noticed."

"I…wow. God, look at you. That's… this is real, isn't it?"

"Very."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas! Instead of just one chapter, I'm posting two for you today - so please make sure to come back and read this one before moving on to the next, heh :P Especially since I am really ever so fond of this one.

_(Thursday, December 1st; Week 11)_

The gel is cool against his skin, as the technician spreads it over his exposed front. She throws him a nervous smile - the calm and soothing tones they'd adopted with him in the beginning had quickly shifted to dread, but Sherlock was trying. At least, minimally - angering the people involved in the care of his future offspring was not a logical idea. But he has more important things to think about, especially as she tosses him some comforting words - "Now, don't be disappointed if you can't hear anything, that sometimes happens," - and presses the transducer against his skin.

She shifts it to and fro, and next to him John is practically vibrating with tension. Sherlock raises his eyebrows in condescension.

"Relax, John. We'll hear what we hear."

"Relax? And who was it that actually wanted to be on time to this appointment?"

The radiologist attempts to hide her smirk, and Sherlock looks slightly at a loss.

But then suddenly it doesn't matter, because the room is filled with sound.

Like music.

He doesn't pretend it's anything especially novel in quality. A heartbeat is a heartbeat, and as this one thunders through the little stereo device by his side, it could be any crisp, drumming beat. It's just noise, fast and furious.

And glorious.

It may only be sound waves, the result of vibrations and interactions between the recorder and its parts, but it is also those little pieces of him and John as something finally real, and concrete. This is the first evidence he's had, and the reality of it all strikes him as sharply as the thudding notes bursting through the room, drilling through his skull until it's all he hears. In a matter of moments, what was only in his thoughts and under his skin is now tangible, and if he could hold it in his hands he would gather it all up until he was full of it. He feels the sound all the way down to his bones:  _babum, babum, babum, babum_ ; racing ahead of his own as if desperately reaching for life.

John laughs, tears growing in his eyes, and reaches out a shaking hand to glide along Sherlock's cheek. "You're crying," he says.

As if it isn't his own, his hand reaches up to touch his face in numb incredulity. Hmm. So he was.

 

_____

 

John won't stop touching him the entire ride home - careless brushes of his fingers around the nape of his neck, shifting closer in those just perceptible centimeters. It's distracting, maddeningly so, and Sherlock can't help it when he crowds John back against the door of the flat and presses his lips to John's, moving insistently as his tongue pries John's lips apart and darts through. John answers in kind, swallowing his groans and breathing hot and hard as he drags his wet mouth against Sherlock's. The hands that haven't stopped bloody touching him now grip restlessly at his hips, latching in and pulling him closer, burrowing under his thick coat to brush against his sides.

John is sliding his teeth along the shell of Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock is letting his head loll with his eyes, when there's an insistent cough behind them.

Sherlock, dazed, realizes they are in quite a public place. John takes a little while longer to realize it, but he does as well, and soon the both of them are turning to see Mrs. Hudson smiling cheerily at them from where she's standing on the sidewalk, grocery bags in hand.

"Hello, loves. Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt anything; just want to get my frozens in," she apologizes, though the smile doesn't leave her face as she waits for them to disentangle themselves and step back sheepishly. John even takes a few bags from her, to which she blushes and waves him off, but accepts the help anyway.

Sherlock follows them in, traipsing up to their own flat as John follows Mrs. Hudson into hers. They're having some sort of inane conversation on the weather - of course it's cold, it's December - and he is perfectly content to wait for John in the flat.

But when John finally emerges from the stairwell, he no longer appears to have intercourse on his mind. He appears fairly troubled, and Sherlock zeroes in on the parchment dust on his fingertips. Old paper. Quality cardstock. Lead smudges, not graphite, so old, then; and photo ink.

"Mrs. Hudson showed you the old scrapbooks," Sherlock notes, correctly, and John's mouth draws into a thin line.

"Yeah. They were out on the counter, and she sort of just - you never told me she had a daughter," he says, coming in to sit in his chair across from Sherlock. There's a faint line between his eyebrows.

Sherlock gives a slight shake of his head. "You never asked, and it was never of any consequence. She died when she was two." Car accident. Head trauma. Dead on impact. Quick.

"God, that's awful. That's really, really terrible." John sucks in a breath. "I want to tell her."

"Tell her what?" Sherlock asks, nimbly shifting so that he's now perched on the edge of the cushion. He regards John with a puzzled expression, trying to figure him out from such cryptic phrases.

"That we're having a baby."

"Oh."

It's really the only response Sherlock can come up with on such notice. A barrage of unexpected… emotion seeps into his thought process, and it's harder than usual to sort through what matters. There are tinges of jealousy, possessiveness, that lurk in the corners, even in the midst of his understanding that this will not be able to remain their secret for long. For weeks, now, this has belonged to him, then to him and John - and just them. This small, shared thing of theirs, as something that could be quietly tucked away at home and protected from the influences of the world outside, in its dark and dangerous depths.

To say Sherlock dreads welcoming another being into the world… well, it's a strange slope, one he's mused over extensively. He has worked with the dead, has felt the traces of humanity left on their skin by those who have none themselves. He has seen the things that people kill for; the greed and lust and addiction, and all of it is so petty and trivial and stupid. It's just work, puzzles to keep him occupied, but that doesn't prevent him from blocking out the human element. In fact, he can't block out the human element. It is ever-present, always the shadow lurking over the edge of his shoulder, always the explanation behind everything. Despite his aversion to them, they are everywhere. Or maybe it is because they are everywhere, in their sickness and profanity and pain, that he is averse to them. He is constantly sorting through them, unraveling their motives and opportunities as easily as a weaver, until their tangled threads lie flat before him and there are no more secrets. No, Sherlock knows them all, each and every one.

Well, at least he'd thought so, until he met John. But from that moment on the world was a different place, and it became impossible to place things in the same context at all. But now he thinks that maybe, yes, definitely, even, there are good people. He's known great people. But good people, that was rare - and yet. He'd never valued it, but somehow, they appeared in his life. Not by droves. But in groups that mattered. And maybe these people were the ones who their child would be exposed to, when it inevitably entered the world. It would grow up and learn hate and fear for itself.

But in the beginning, yes. These few would be enough, for goodness and light.

"Alright," he says at last, standing up. "Before or after you shag me?"

John blinks. "Um. Are you sure we're ready to start telling people?"

"I assumed my answer was an indicator of that fact, yes," he says, continuing to steadily advance across the room.

"Should we…talk about this more?" John tries one last time, but Sherlock is leaning over him, surveying him with the intensity of his examinations of evidence, and he's quickly losing his train of thought as those arms encircle him. That was, after all, how they got into this in the first place, and Sherlock is not going to forget that technique any time soon.  _File, Save_.

"Talking is less fun than other things," Sherlock says, leaning down and kissing him deeply, warm and long until John breaks away with a laugh.

"Anything to keep you entertained for an hour. C'mon, let's go tell Mrs. Hudson."

 

_____

 

Mrs. Hudson cries. She dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief, all the while telling them what great fathers they'll be and how happy for them she is and how she'll be free to babysit whenever they need to get away, no trouble at all; and millions of other little things that even Sherlock can't catch because she's just so giddy with excitement.

Sherlock feels uncomfortable with the tears, but there's a softness in his eyes when she throws her arms around him in a tight embrace, though she's mindful of the growing bump tucked away under his coat. John just makes them tea and smiles a lot, and Sherlock finds he rather likes it.

Landlady, housekeeper, babysitter - by the time they're leaving and heading back upstairs, it's reaffirmed that it doesn't matter what she is as long as she's there in any capacity. She is part of the good people, and that is what matters, because Sherlock will only have the best for what is his.

 

 _______

 

 _(Monday, December 5th; Week 12)_

"John and I are having a baby," Sherlock announces one afternoon, as they're standing ankle-deep in mud around the body of a middle-aged man reported missing following his bankruptcy.

It goes very unexpectedly silent. Sherlock's eyes tear themselves away from the victim to find John's gaze. His eyes are wide, but not alarmed, though the same cannot be said for the rest of the present Yarders.

"Was that… not right?" Sherlock says in an aside to John.

"We didn't exactly discuss telling people."

"But we told Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson isn't the majority of the Scotland Yard betting pool."

"I just assumed..."

John's face scrunches up before he sighs. "No, that was quite alright. Yes, it's true, we're having a kid," he says in response to the looks being shot at him from all directions. "Now can we please get back to work?"

"Well, I'm the one who's pregnant," Sherlock clarifies, before resuming his examination of the body.

The rest of the Yard continues to look uncomfortable. Sherlock doesn't care, and in fact appreciates the silence as he works out the circumstances surrounding the man's death. But Dimmock, who's the Inspector for today's investigation, spoils it by clearing his throat. "That's… we're very happy for you," he says at last, and oddly enough, looks as if he means it.

Anderson is not on forensics that day. Probably for the best. God, they're not letting Anderson within a street-wide radius of their child.

Most nod their agreement with the inspector's statement. One tech, looking especially pleased at the news, is beginning to accept seemingly spontaneous donations from her counterparts.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock gasps at the sight, straightening as realization lights upon his features and seizing John by the arms. "The funding dinner!" He whirls, coat swirling around his knees, and squelches back to the main road.

John sighs and passes a hand over his face.

 

 _______

 

 _(Tuesday, December 6th; Week 12 continued)_

Following Sherlock's outburst, they embark first on a discussion of propriety, which Sherlock largely ignores. Then they embark on the gradual task of informing those close to them -  _close, Sherlock, not the whole bloody planet._

Sherlock considers this. Again, he knows it's the chemicals in his blood that make him so, but the conflict of wanting to jealously guard his secret and wanting the world to know -  _after so long, look at what I have and what I never thought I would; never thought I'd even want_ \- is a confusing myriad of passages. But perhaps this middle way is the best among them.

John repeats it in that awe-filled, tender way; what Sherlock's heard him question so many times now. "When we tell them, there's no going back. This is… this is real."

Like every other time, he bites back the sarcastic comment that leaps to his tongue, because if he's honest with himself, in the first weeks, he couldn't really grasp it either. And John is forgiven for being slower than him. The rest of the world usually takes longer to catch up, and he's willing to wait. He will sit through John's milestones that mark it as  _no, this time, this is what makes it fact_ , up until the day it really sinks in.

Because Lestrade was absent from the crime scene, and because their having a child was mostly going to affect him, he's the one they call first. He stops by the next day with a couple of cold case files in hand. Sherlock does his best not to assault him at the door, though he's frankly taken to the sharing of their news very zealously, and it's taking much of his willpower to refrain. The fact that Lestrade has brought something to distract him, however, is a blessing.

They sit on the couch, poring over the files together. Sherlock does more of the poring; Lestrade sits and nods and occasionally says something that isn't so offensive Sherlock has to brush off the mere thought of him speaking. For the most part, Sherlock approves of Lestrade. He finds him… solid. Not in the way John is solid, but more in the fact that he works among idiots and still manages to prove slightly superior. And for all the things he did for Sherlock in the beginning - those blown-pupil nights when he'd lost all feeling in his arms and was just floating in his brain and killing himself in the best way he knew possible... well, he was unlikely to forget it, or ever stop wondering why the detective had ever only just sighed and walked home with him every step of the way. And so maybe it is a bit in the way John is solid, too, if he can grudgingly admit it. Before John, Lestrade had that same respect, and Sherlock appreciated it. His lack of derision was… pleasant.

When they tell him the news, it is the same.

He looks from one to the other for a moment, then gives a helpless little laugh.

"We are never going to survive that kid."

 

 _______

 

 _(Friday, December 9th; Week 12 continued)_

John comes home, grocery bags in hand, and finds Sherlock sprawled across the floor, eyes closed and breathing slowly.

He raises his eyebrows at the prone form. "Sherlock?" he questions, side-stepping carefully around the legs spread haphazardly in his way, huffing a little when he finally stumbles into the kitchen.

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, but makes a sound of acknowledgement low in his throat. His parted shirt hangs off his sides, as his fingers trail over the distended skin. It's now a noticeable bulge beneath his pressed silk shirts (he grumbles as he's forced to leave the bottom button undone every day, and neither John nor Sherlock want to think about the day when he can't wear his precious, tailored things at all). Only his winter coat can shield it from view now, a blessing as the days grow colder and they begin to share their news with the lucky - or, depending on how you viewed it, unlucky - few.

John watches from the corner of his eye as he puts the groceries away, dumping the bags and setting out pasta ingredients. He has the water heating up and everything all set out before he finally relents and walks back to the open doorway. Even though he knows it's probably better not to ask, he does. "What are you doing?"

"Breathing exercises."

John appears momentarily taken aback by the simplicity of it. "Oh. I see."

Sherlock opens one of his silver eyes and lays it on John. "When's dinner?"

John recovers enough to stare back, expression alight. "Soon as I make it. Why? Am I not going to have to force it down your throat this time?"

Hmm. And John calls him dramatic. With a huff that effectively signals the end of his regimented inhalations, he sits up, grimacing as he finds it harder to roll upwards. He looks up at John through the fringes of his messy curls, lips curling into what can only be described as a pout. "I've been excessively hungry all day, and no one's been around to make me food."

John gives a sharp laugh, heading back into the kitchen. "So I'm the sole breadwinner, and your housewife?" He turns to the ingredients, and as he does, Sherlock steals behind him, cinching his hands around the shorter man's waist as he stiffens in surprise.

"That is, I assume, how a household works during pregnancy." Sherlock dips his head to nuzzle against John's neck. He doesn't remember when, exactly, he became so…affectionate. But there's something about John that is irresistible, and he has long since given up trying to resist it. Hormones, hormones, hormones, his head screams, knocking around itself in its search for explanations. The hormones themselves say something entirely different, as he feels John's heartbeat thudding softly through his back. Either way, John smells so good - cinnamon, musk, pepper - that it doesn't matter.

John relaxes, tipping back his head to rest under Sherlock's as he pauses with the box of pasta still in hand. "Please, that's how this household works all the time." But there's no venom in the words, and as John turns to face him, there's a softness in his eyes that would belie any traces. He leans up and gives him a sweet, soft kiss, his hands resting against Sherlock's waist as his thumbs stroke gently over the swollen surface. They part, John's eyes dropping to where his hands rest against the lighter tone of Sherlock's skin. "Hello," he says softly, the most beautiful smile Sherlock's ever seen jumping to his lips. Sherlock can only watch as John begins to whisper nonsense to their child, unfamiliar but not unpleasant bubbling threatening to spill up and out from his chest, into his throat, and out into the open.

"I know you can't hear me yet, but that won't stop me from telling you that your father is completely and utterly incapable of helping himself. Unless it also helps you. He's very good at being good for you," John says, catching Sherlock's eye with a wink before saying, more seriously, "See, you're a good influence on us already."

He pauses, his thumbs swirling aimlessly across the taut skin, goosebumps erupting over the surface. "And you're not even here yet. You're just growing and changing in there, getting ready to see us." John suddenly slides down so he's eye to stomach with Sherlock, and he lays his warm cheek against it, eyes slipping closed in what Sherlock can only describe as bliss. "You're going to be beautiful, like your father."

"Strong, like your dad," Sherlock hears himself interject, and John's fingers only pause for a moment before they are yet again skittering off over his sides in mindless patterns.

"Resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic, just like him," John says slyly, and they both giggle a little.

Sherlock sobers. "Brave. Kind."

"You'll have his brain."

"You'll… you'll have his heart."

John looks up at him, eyes unreadable but full of something, something, they're so full and Sherlock doesn't know what it is but it fills him, too, fills him to bursting. "No, you'll get that from both of us."

John stands, brushing his knees off, and after one last, long moment he releases Sherlock, turning back to the stove. "Can't say much for his cooking, though," he adds. "Even though I do tell him it's only chemistry and he should be able to figure it out himself."

Sherlock snorts. "Is that a challenge?"

John, in the midst of dumping his noodles into the now boiling water, smiles. He lifts a knife, and gestures at the tomatoes bunched neat and red on the counter. "Good deduction. Pass the basil, would you?"

Sherlock grimaces at the ease with which he has been roped into this, but does as asked. Predictably, the tomatoes do not fare well, and it's not long before John is shaking his head, affectionately deeming him utterly useless and sending him for plates.

Sherlock watches John as he cooks, the simple ways in which he moves around the kitchen, humming every once in a while under his breath. Sherlock can glean information from him at one glance; the simple things he reads in his posture or his tan or the contents of his pockets. But these are the things that have taken and will take years to learn - just the simple things that become John-things, in the way he shakes the spices with his gentle hands, how he sways slightly as he stirs the pot. They're strange things, random things, but Sherlock watches and catalogues every one. What for others is insignificant detail, what he would just have thrown away before, he does no longer - everything about John is consequential, and he might not know why yet, but maybe these little bits and pieces will one day reveal the answer.

John heaps steaming mounds of spaghetti onto the plates, layering them with a liberal coat of sauce before closing the pot with a satisfied sigh. He takes one look at the kitchen table and gives a sigh of another nature, and they move into the small table of the living room.

It's a comfortable silence they settle into, eating together in a way that Sherlock has never remembered as pleasant before. The silences of dinners at the Holmes household were always terse affairs, punctuated by stilted conversation and Mummy's occasional outbursts. This is nothing like that - John demands no attention, just appreciates the meal and sends him small but bright smiles every few moments. When they do speak, it's easy, natural, with no need to impress or surpass one another.

His hand curls around his fork.

"My mother wants us for Christmas dinner," he blurts, shifting uncomfortably.

John looks up, nodding a little. "I assumed, yeah."

It wasn't as if John had never been to the Holmes residence for Christmas dinner before. It was always an unpleasant affair, to say the least. But tolerable. After his first time, a little drunk on the mulled wine, John likened it to, in his exact words, picking up dog shit - necessary, out of respect for others, but not the most fun of tasks. Sherlock couldn't decide whether to be offended by the analogy or appreciate its accuracy.

"We'll have to tell my family." His nose wrinkles in distaste, and his hands make little fluttering motions at the sides of the table, as if wishing he could just push the whole business away.

"It'll be pretty obvious by then."

"It's already obvious now." Sherlock casts a reproachful look down at the bulge that prevents him from scooting closer to the table.

John laughs. "It is. But aren't you… excited, to let them know?" He takes a careful bite of his pasta, and Sherlock's eyes narrow fractionally at the casual gesture.

"Why would I be? This is important, and I don't want them to go about ruining it like they always do."

To his surprise, John throws him a small smile. "Your family's not all that bad. Families should be there to support each other."

"You know our families, John," Sherlock says quietly, and for a long moment they don't speak.

"Yeah, I suppose," John finally sighs. He lays down his fork, scraps a hand over his face. "That's going to change, though. Alright? And we'll change them, too. You'll see."

Sherlock does not reply, but he has seen John do more miraculous things before, and is willing to let him try.

"Besides, that's not for a couple weeks yet. Though I intend to spend the better part of that day here, just us," John adds, standing up and taking back their plates.

"What of your family?" Sherlock props his feet up on the table, watching John's trek into the kitchen.

"What about?"

"Are we going to inform them as well."

"Yeah, I mean, there's only Harry." His nose wrinkles. "Not on Christmas, though. Not enough hours in a day for everyone." He reappears at the doorway, oddly fidgety. "I was thinking about going to see Harry next week, actually."

Sherlock fixes him with a steady, calculating stare. He knows John has been trying to mend things with his sister ever since they'd met, but was making little headway. Mostly, for lack of trying, though he won't ever admit it. This is a different change, a drastic change, as he is proactively seeking her out, despite all his aversions to her habits and her consistent failures. Why though, why? Ah. Families. Creating one of his own, wants a good environment for that family. John and his happy dreams of happy homes.

For them, it is no dream, and this is something Sherlock simply accepts as fact, as easily as John holds onto things like what the earth goes around. But to bring the hopes of broken past lives into it is foolish.

Despite himself, he feels the word leaving his mouth, odd in the shape of his tongue. "Good."

John is also surprised. "Really? You're okay with me going?"

"I'm not helpless," Sherlock says, somewhat sullenly, and John ducks his face to hide a grin. "If you desire to see your sister, then fine, make the trip."

It's John's turn to narrow his eyes. "What? D'you think I shouldn't?"

"Does it matter what I think? You will anyway. This is important to you. You only ever move about the room so often when you're particularly anxious about something. So stop that and just do it. It's making me dizzy," Sherlock finishes irritably, reclining farther back in his chair.

John opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He shifts in place, realizes what he's doing, and holds himself still with visible effort. "Alrigh, then. I'll go down on Monday. Remind me to call Sarah and ask for a few days off." He knows that Sherlock will, inevitably, not do so, and goes to write it down on a post-it note anyway. As he does, he looks up at the calendar from under the small counter alcove. "Sherlock? Do you know what Sunday is?"

"The 11th."

"No, I mean… it's the beginning of your second trimester." He comes around the side of the door, grinning hugely, and presses a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips. "We're almost a third of the way through this."

Unconsciously, Sherlock's hands go to his abdomen. How odd to think, in half a year, what has not already changed will be drastically different. How strange to think that after years of a defined unexpectedness, a new chaos would enter their lives. How completely, utterly mad to think that of all the things that had changed them, of all the things that have happened at all, this is the one that did?

As the brightness of John's smile threatens to blind him, and the pressure of lips becomes more insistent against his own, he hums an incredulous, agreeing sound low in his chest.

How very odd indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Angsty sex. References to car accidents. References to miscarriage. An author whose notes might be giving you the wrong idea, so just read on.
> 
> Also: This is the second of two chapters I am posting today in honor of the holidays. Make sure you go back and read the previous one first, or you might be just a bit confused, heh.

_(Wednesday, December 14th; Week 13)_

John is on the train home from Harry's, sitting angrily in a corner of the car, when he receives the call.

John has received many calls before. This time should be no different.  _Oh, yes, just some bruising, he'll be fine. We're keeping him for the night, just to make sure that swelling goes down. There were a few stitches involved, but he'll be in good shape by the end of the week._  He's always dreaded different calls, ones that aren't so easily resolved, but only in the quiet of night when the nightmares are still fresh as they pound through his blood. They're calls he has never, in caring for colds and influenza and broken wrists at the most, had to make, and it's a blessing. He can't imagine having to pick up the phone and inform someone of the worst, listen as the news sinks in.

But he knows what it's like to be on the other end, and he definitely knows this is the worse end of the deal. But this time, he worries for two.

Sherlock hears him pounding through the hallway in the moments before he arrives, flushed and out of breath and seething panic into the room. He can read the fear in the increasing speed of his footsteps, hear it in the rushed way he accosts the nurses and begs them to show him where he is. Finally, he sees it in wide blue eyes.

"Sherlock," John sighs, and whether it's relief or anger or terror, it doesn't matter, because John is suddenly there, surrounding him, enveloping him in his knit-wrapped arms and crushing his slender form against him. Sherlock's hands curl in the warm fabric, drag him closer despite himself. The trembling finally stops, and he inhales on a shaky breath.

John tries to step back, but Sherlock chokes something unintelligible and presses him back. John cards anxious hands through his hair, settling him, shushing him gently.

"It's alright. The baby… is alright," he says on a whisper, because he knows it's what John needs to hear.

"The nurses told me," John reassures him, though there's a tremor to his caresses that wasn't there before.

 _But you had to see it for yourself. Yes, my John, I know. I was the same way. Make them run the tests, demand the results, get me out of this car and tell me if I've lost it all._

The thought turns down the dark road, in the sudden, unpleasant stomach-dropping way achieved at the height of a rollercoaster, and he flinches against it.  _Delete, delete, delete. Request invalid, Restart Y/N?_

"I can't stop thinking about it," he admits, and the broken confession and the sharp breath of hot air that warms against his collarbone sends a painful jolt through John. His arms tighten, and Sherlock sinks into the hold as John cradles him closer, ever closer.

"Tell me what happened."

But what is there to tell, really? And if I open my mouth, I'm not sure what will come out. All his carefully controlled and contoured edges; all shattered. Just this mess inside his head through which he cannot sort. All this information, all these emotions, and he can't process it, can't think, because every time he thinks there's only… "Lights up ahead. Rain. Cabbie had been in an argument with his wife. Violence involved - welts rising across his cheek. Red-faced, obviously furious. Wasn't thinking, too focused on his home issues. Lights grow closer. It's a parcel truck, I can see that and I can see that we're moving from our lane. I can see the angles, map it out to its exactness and see our paths intersecting before it happens, and I can't do anything to stop it. The lights are there and I'm not doing anything because I can't, I can't move, all I can do is throws my hands across myself. It's all I can think about, there's nothing else, it fills my mind as the light fills my eyes and the sound fills my ears and we go spinning off into the rain. I cannot fail in this, this one thing. And I didn't. They cut the trapped belts and there were tests and I was fine, and it was fine, but I keep seeing -" He buries his face in the crook of John's arm, breathes deep.  _Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon; all I wanted was the smell of cinnamon and you and I couldn't imagine not having it._

"Stop. Open your eyes, Sherlock."

John's voice is warm, and soft, and home, and he can't help but answer it. His eyelids part, and he feels a wetness clinging to his lashes but can't bring himself to care. John's lip trembles at the sight, but his voice remains steady, and Sherlock clings to it just as strongly as the fingers fisted in his jumper.

"Just me. Just look at me, Sherlock. Everything's fine." There are more murmured assurances, and mindless words and stroking hands, and Sherlock feels every one drop into his scalp.

They seep through to his brain, and slowly, the roiling mass of thought untangles. With shudders he comes down, until slowly the clarity he has become accustomed to is restored. His heart beat slows, the monitors next to him level. Nurses enter, side-stepping the doctor who throws them hard stares, as if daring them to ask him to move. They don't. Checking his abrasions and bruises, they simply deem him satisfactory and move quietly from the room. John watches them go, grits his teeth for a minute, and then climbs into the bed alongside Sherlock, holding him against his chest.

It's distinctly uncomfortable. Also distinctly illegal or incorrect or something of the sort, and he looks up at John. His eyebrows rise, but John shakes his head.

"I'm your doctor, and I'm only doing what's best for my patient."

Sherlock's mouth twitches, but he says nothing. He feels oddly… drained. And he can't bring himself to puzzle the feelings of it out, because he's had enough of it. Feeling. So pointless, so exhausting, and yet… he feels John slot along his side, rounding to the curve of his belly. John's hands, strong, steady, hold them together, his face buried in the dark tangles.

"Sleep," he whispers, and yet again the words are dropping into his brain. Oh. He'd suspected John would want to talk more. John likes talking; thinks it solves things. But maybe some things are better left unsaid. Or maybe others, he thinks, as John's fingers drawing soothing shapes into his back and the scent of home fills his lungs, just don't need words at all.

For the first time, his thoughts had failed him. But John… John never has.

 

_____

 

"How was your sister's?"

They're sprawled across the bed, home at last, Sherlock assured of his health and John strictly promising to take care of him, not that he'd needed to give his word. Hazy moonlight drifts down through the square window, and as Sherlock asks the question his silver eyes look huge and white as he stares up from the pillows. John sighs, doesn't break his hold with them. "You tell me." He rolls on his side to face Sherlock, as they mirror one another.

Sherlock's eyes dart over his frame, assessing, gathering, tentatively feeling out in that way he'd lost. "You… your tense shoulders. Unhappy. Visits with your sister usually end this way, it's nothing new. But I also noticed that your wallet is missing the picture you usually keep tucked behind your cards. That's new. And not good."

John gives a grim shake of his head, closing his eyes and burying his face against the pillow. "No, you're right. It's not good." He inhales sharply, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "We had…an argument."

Sherlock waits for him to elaborate. He'd known from the moment John had suggested his outing that this was a doomed gesture. Noble, perhaps, but noble didn't always and didn't usually mean successful. But he was John, and noble was what he did best, and Sherlock was going to let him try. What John thought would make this different than every other failed attempt of the past, Sherlock didn't know - maybe, like him, he was affected by the thought of their miracle alone. Let it grow too large inside his skull. Maybe they placed too much hope on things like this, just because they were too much to hope for. But again, Sherlock did not say anything - best to let John come to some conclusions on his own.

"Everything was going fine," he begins quietly. The room echoes back through the stillness, thick and dark around their cocoon of bedspread. "I told her the news, and she was happy for us. I thought, maybe… I thought we were getting somewhere, you know? For once, we were…getting along. Happy. But." His lips purse. "I came downstairs late last night, and she's sitting at the table with a bottle." A short, derisive laugh cracks through the silence. "And, god help her, she has four finished ones in front of her. But then, as if that wasn't enough…she started…talking."

His voice has grown hoarse, and Sherlock slides a cool hand across the mattress to grasp his wrist. John stares down at the spindly fingers that attach themselves to him, feather light, and do not slacken in their firm and gentle weight. He swallows.

"She and Clara. They were pregnant. Harry was. And she lost it." There's a dullness in his voice that raises the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck. It's a dead sound, a horrified, numb noise that issues from his throat. As if the words by themselves just weren't chilling enough.

Because of the drinking. She drowned herself and any chances at life inside her, washed it away in acid at the back of her throat. Let it burn its whiskey trail and left the flames to destroy everything else. Wasn't strong enough to fight the blaze. Not even for a child, pulled from the ashes.

The hand he has around John's arm tightens, and to his insurmountable distress, John does not squeeze back.

"I would have been - was - an uncle," he says in a low voice, and Sherlock notes the growing pulse against his fingers; feels the quickening breath against his cheek. And eventually, he feels the tremors that shake through John's shoulders as wet eyes rise to his own.

"I would have been an uncle, and she didn't even try to-"

Sherlock scoots closer, until they're mere millimeters apart. He takes John's face in his hands, thumbs smoothing down the tracks that have come to line his face; coming away wet and salty. His fingers continue to settle over the skin, restlessly willing him to be okay. He was never one for this; John was the comforter, John was so good at this and he… he was… he bites back a whimper as John continues to crumble under his hands. There are no ways in which I can make this right for you. Is there nothing I can do?

He moves his mouth over John's, long, deep kisses that draw him in to the wet, warm comfort of his lips and tongue. John's mouth parts helplessly under his, and he strokes a gentle tongue inside, the barest of trailing swipes across his lips. It's warm and soft, and even as he gives and gives to the motion, he is coaxing John into taking, breathing heavy in between the quiet sounds of flesh on flesh as they sink through the thick, heady air.

Sherlock tilts him onto his back, their mouths still moving with one another as they roll. Sherlock slides his arms up the pillow, supporting himself on his elbows as he dips his head and caresses his tongue with his own. He pulls back with a wet slide, opens his eyes to see John's bruised lips and dark eyes. He drops his head again, but this time only lays his forehead across John's. The hands he has curled in the pillow by his head come to stroke along the sides of his face, holding him so that they are connected and unbreakable as he fastens his gaze on John.

"Would have. But this is the present, John. And there is a future." He bites down on John's bottom lip, turns his protests into a sweet, keening cry instead, as John grabs fistfuls of dark hair and yanks him down again. Sherlock feels the heart beneath him picking up speed; feels as it becomes harder for him to catch breaths between the vicious, desperate way in which John is laying claim to his mouth. What started off slow and sensuous and deep grows in its quiet intensity, as the air lost between them only serves to fan the burning fire that sears its way along their spines.

John gasps as Sherlock shoves a rough knee in between his legs, grinding down against the growing hardness there and earning another barely restrained whimper. Sherlock growls, low in his throat, and crushes his mouth again to John's.

"Cry. Scream if you want. Let it go," he pleads in between on ragged breaths, because it is the only thing he knows how to say; the only comfort he knows he can give. And John does love to talk. But this tension that has dragged on in his shoulders, hangs heavy in the air around him - Sherlock is tired of reaching towards him and finding glass walls where once was empty space.

So he shatters them, takes his hands and claws them from John's skin; takes his tongue and draws it from his lips. He pulls John's pajama bottoms down; bats his trembling fingers away and sheds his own impatiently before throwing himself down again. He presses his tongue in the divots of John's heaving collarbone; soothes him in the long swirls of saliva he paints across the skin. He glistens under the faint glare of the moon, and Sherlock finds his breath catching in his throat at the tortured lines the glow carves across his features. Let it go, let it go; John, let me make you whole in the way only you have ever done for me.

John bites his swollen lips as he tugs Sherlock back up on his knees, spidering his hands down over his back as they shift upwards. He pulls them together, and Sherlock feels the press all around his abdomen as John curves to fit against him. There's a hand resting against his nape, the faintest of pressures keeping them in contact, and the brushing of his calloused knuckles rouses goosebumps across his skin. He pulls back with a breathy exhale, but does not go far - his eyes dart up to John's, their noses brush as he tilts his head.

"Take me?"

John's eyes grow darker, the hands he's surrounded him with tighten fractionally. "How do you want to do this?"

Sherlock gives him a quick once-over, then crawls back to rest on his thighs. "Sit up," he orders, and John straightens. Sherlock scoots him back against the headboard, stopping to take one more kiss, letting John's moan drown in the thick contact of skin on skin. When he surfaces, John is the picture of desire, his legs spread across the rumpled sheets and his cock jutting from his body, tip glistening, his face full of heat and his eyes bright to match the redness of his lips. But there are still lines, deep and dark across his forehead, and the memory of pain in his blown pupils. Sherlock wants to burn it out of him.

He turns, nestles his back into the nook of John's chest. An unexpectedly tender kiss drops into his hair, and hands settle on his waist, fluttering over the taut surface. Sherlock's long arms reach up behind him, fingers curling around the wooden headboard, and his head falls back against John's shoulder, turning to inhale the mix of sweat and the undertones of his own unique flavors. As his nose meets the skin ever so lightly, John shudders behind him, providing the support with his hands as Sherlock's arms hoist himself into the air. The hands leave his waist, and Sherlock is suspended as the burning of this position begins in his shoulders, trembling as he waits. Moments later, and yes - a finger, liberally coated in lubricant, circles his entrance, and Sherlock inhales sharply as it goes knuckle deep, swiping along his tense walls. A second finger slides in after it, and Sherlock can't stop himself from sinking down onto John's hand, head thrown back and exposing the long line of his neck with a shuddered gasp.

John leans over and bites, sucking and soothing in quick darts of his tongue as Sherlock fucks himself on John's fingers. "God, I love you like this… all wanton and desperate for me," John whispers to the broken flesh, and Sherlock's retort cuts off as John gives a violent twist of his fingers, the faintest of brushes against his prostate sending shuddering jolts up his spine and straight into his brain. Just proving his point. Sherlock can appreciate that. Yes, he can appreciate it very much, especially as his muscles clench and release around the quick movements of John's calloused hands.

But eventually, John is withdrawing his fingers, and Sherlock can hear from the squelches that he's preparing himself, too. His arms, burning with exhaustion already, shake madly, and he's not sure if it's from effort alone or the breathless anticipation that incites the heaving of the ribcage protruding from his sides. He bucks back against John, who complies, his hands latching them together as, with a breath, he draws his hips down, down, down.

Yet again the feeling he has so often when he's with John; of being so incredibly full. But this, this closeness, this intimacy as John's hips begin to rock gently upwards into his, and Sherlock lets his hold slacken to drop them more firmly together - there's a physicality to that connection, and he hopes the intensity of what they feel every day, magnified by the press of their bodies, is enough to drive the pain and doubt from John's mind and that sad look in his eyes. He knows it can. It's happened before. And now, now is more important than ever - for the both of them, if he's being honest (because the police lights are still flashing behind his eyes and he can still feel a belt cutting into his shoulder), but Sherlock is a master of disguise.

Nothing, however, can hide the way in which his jaw unhinges on a soundless cry as John moves against him, grunting his own noises of pleasure as Sherlock flutters and flexes around him. He sinks down, hard, swivels his hips, and the high, agonized moan that rushes next to the space of Sherlock's ear has him doing it again, but this time John crashes up, meeting him with his own weight as his fingers cinch more tightly over the expanse of his waist. Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut, as they begin to settle - but it isn't settling, not really. It's a struggle, as they both labor and pant against one another, sticking together, stretching apart, and smacking once more against each other.

Without warning, John snakes his hand around and curls his nails over Sherlock's length, pausing to thumb the head. He hisses, rocks back and down in a way that causes the wooden frame of the bed to shudder beneath them, and John makes a choked sound in his throat as Sherlock twists and bares the line of his neck. John's breath scalds across his ear as it comes faster and faster, and Sherlock resists rocking forward into that talented, able hand to squeeze around John - all for him,  _all for you_.

His hands push down, full weight coming to rest, before he is repeating the motion in rapid time, John's own movements becoming erratic and strained. Sherlock can feel the lines of tension thrumming through where they are pressed to one another, and he begs John, in the careful, sweeping shifts and dips of his body, to let go.

But he refuses, and they are battling, madly warring against one another in their desperate attempts to bring the other down. John skirts his teeth against the lobe of Sherlock's ear, and his hand gives a wickedly lazy slide of gentle fingers before squeezing sharply and unexpectedly. Sherlock sighs, high and inhuman in his voice, but the familiar tug in his gut is becoming more pronounced. In frustration, he rises almost completely off John, only the head of him enveloped, before letting gravity take him in once more. But it is in vain - even as John moans in abandon, his move has only served to rock him into that sensitive spot, and the need and desire all pool together in one desperate, white-hot node that Sherlock is powerless to resist. He comes, the cry ripped from his throat, knees snapping up as his toes curl with the arch of his back.

The aftershocks shudder through him, but even then, he does not forget John. The man at his back, this ever present man, is still thrusting towards oblivion, and Sherlock learned long ago the lengths to which he would go to please John. And this, this is more than giving what he wants - this is what he needs; this thing between them that somehow makes everything in the world alright, no matter what the papers said or what family secrets he unearthed or no matter the alignment of the planets in the solar system. There was always this.

Placing his feet firmly on the bed, he presses backwards, a languid but powerful roll of his hips pulling another gasp from John. But gasps; he can do so much better than gasps. Riding John's own desperation, he begins to speak.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he whispers, letting his tongue reach out to rasp against John's cheek. "How no one else is able to make me come as hard? How there has never been anyone else to capture my attention so fully? And then, when they had it, not lose it? Only you, John. You have only ever held that power of me. John, augh - you can feel it, too, can't you? The curling in the pit of your stomach, that fire. I'm the only one you've ever had it with, John. I'm the only one who ever will. So come for me, love. Show me just how much you want me. I'm all over your hands; your sweat and mine are the same against my back. It's all for you, just like it's all for me. So let go. Show me just how hard I make you, ah - yes, how hard I can make that burn and glide and that sweet ecstasy. Show me, John. Show me."

The crescents John is carving into his hip with one hand are suddenly exposed, as his fingers drop to grapple desperately at the bed sheets at the low-throated command. He rises, breathes a name, and - with an uninhibited groan he spills into Sherlock, teeth latching into his shoulder and not letting go through the soul-wrenching spasms he rides out in hiccupping jerks of his hips and lolls of his head.

Sherlock relaxes against the heaving chest at his spine, his skin jumping as he feels the shocks spread through his nerves and spark off their ends. It's easy to just rest limply against one another as they drift slowly back to earth; let their holds cool and slacken. Too easy to just lose himself in this, because really, was that not how it all got started? But then, if this was the result, getting lost and staying there couldn't really be so bad.

He's drained, it's obvious in the confused, darting thoughts that spiral through his brain in none of their civilized order. He shifts, head falling against John, who is pressing soft, dreamy kisses, almost as an afterthought, against his shoulder. He smiles faintly, and when John looks up, the expression is returned. There is still the memory of sadness hiding in their dark blue depths, and Sherlock knows this is far from over. John has carried aches and pains throughout his life, and the addition of these will simply be another weight upon his shoulders - but one that he, as always, is able to bear.

And maybe, he thinks, as a soft hand comes up to stroke over his stomach in calm circles, some things will lighten those loads. Someones.

He shivers, and whether it's the thought or the registration of the winter air against his chilled skin, it prompts him to lean forward and hike the blankets up over him and John. They settle back, Sherlock still cradled against John's chest, his own hand cradling the weight that hangs against his front.

John cares too much. That was obvious from the start. It was obvious, too, that sometimes, it hurt. And somehow always, in the end, it was worth it.

And as John curves against him, burying his face in Sherlock's curls with a long, deep draw of breath and screwing his eyes shut against the world in his slow descent into sleep, he realizes he's starting to understand what that feels like. In that deep, hollow place under his collarbone, there was a steady beat that never faltered.

 

_____

 

John keeps a close eye on Sherlock for the next week, ready to jump at the first sign of trauma; the first glimpse of an overlooked injury or a forgotten wound. He can feel that anxious gaze upon him, John trying to be subtle and discreet in his care, but Sherlock does not call him out on it. In truth, he understands John's ever increasing desire to be protective. His hips continue to shift wider, and even as other symptoms have begun to slowly abate, the changes in the set of his waist and the crick in his back and the tenderness of his chest all make it ever more undeniable that the reality John once had to assure himself of has now quite arrived.

And ever since the accident, well, he was under even more personal care. Though to be honest, there was little to do that would rouse John's suspicions. It was one of the dry periods where criminals suddenly decided to take a group holiday, and with John firmly insisting on keeping any more chemicals out of the house, well, he wasn't able to get up to much. Though he doubted he would remain completely fine with the new limitations and restrictions of his body as time progressed, for the time being, their hazy, air pocket of uninterrupted space was almost… pleasant.

Their recovery, he supposed, as the year slowly dwindled and prepared to morph into the new.

John soothes away the old hurts by throwing himself enthusiastically into what he's deemed their last Christmas as just the two of them, an Event of Monumental Significance. Sherlock watches in amusement - and often slight befuddlement - as John goes around the flat with his preparations. Slowly, the flat transforms itself. Slowly, they forget.

John argues one night from in front of the hot oven, his cheeks flushed and hair askew, that Christmas is magic. Sherlock rolls his eyes and scoffs when John is looking. He might also steal cookies from the tray whenever he isn't, but, well, if John wanted to he'd observe it for himself. Mrs. Hudson, staring between them at the counter with a smirk, winks, and passes him the tube of frosting from behind her back.

They stand around a corpse, huddled together for warmth, and Lestrade talks about the gift exchange going down at the Yard. John brightens, and before Sherlock can protest - there's a man lying dead, as John is usually so fond of pointing out - they're drawing names. John has Lestrade, Sherlock notes without having to read what's on his slip - it's obvious in his delighted reaction. He, of course, has Anderson. Sherlock sulks the whole way to the department store, but brightens by attempting to guess at the things John has in his bags when they meet up again to return home. He is more considerably cheered when he devises a plan to rig Anderson's desk with a lovely pair of obnoxious, mechanical singing birds he finds in a tech shop. With modes from classical symphonies to hard metal. An on switch that, when he works on it a bit, will trigger the melody at the slightest provocation. Oh, yes, he is most definitely cheered.

Bill, one of John's old mates, stops by one evening. John is a different man - still John, undoubtedly; but there's a side of him that's brought out in the companionship of an old comrade that Sherlock has never seen before. It is most interesting. Bill, however, is typically dull - yet he willingly helps John string Christmas lights along the front of the door, something he's been begging to do but never had the time for himself, and since it makes John happy, he does his best to smile. It's easier, when John sends him proud glances and gushes about their work and the baby and Sherlock over steaming mugs. Easier, when Bill claps him on the shoulder and tells him he's good for John and he can see the shining in his partner's eyes, to respect the man. Easier still, when as he leaves, he embraces Sherlock and John can feel the corded stripes of vicious scars across his back, and sees John's face when he feels them too, and remembers.

"I don't understand why we need an entire tree," Sherlock remarks one day, perched in his chair and not looking up from where he's enthusiastically taking red pen to an article about the effect of various household chemicals on human skin. "Much less a live one."

John, puffing in great gulps as he attempts to shove said entire tree through the doorway to no avail, glares absolute knives in Sherlock's direction. "It's Christmas. We have trees."

"Bah. Bleach burns with those striations? Please," he mutters, and then, more loudly, "It just seems like a lot of unnecessarily arduous work."

"Says the man sitting on the chair," John gasps, finally succeeding in getting the large bulk through the doorway. A shower of pine needles rains down in the living room in celebration of their arrival. John narrows his eyes at them. "You could have helped, you know."

"Manual labor," Sherlock reminds him, pointing down at his protruding stomach and simultaneously scribbling out an entire paragraph. "Not supposed to do it anymore."

"Because you did it so much before," John mutters, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He looks up in affront, but John just silences him by planting a kiss on his lips.

Sherlock helps him decorate the tree, mostly because he's pretty sure hanging tiny ornaments on a tree does not constitute as manual labor, and John keeps wheedling, as it is. But he's also sure - as they unpack boxes of John's old things, and find themselves improvising bows with leftover surgical tape, and when Sherlock nearly falls over when he tangles himself in long lines of garland while John laughs so hard he cries, and as they argue over whether putting a skull on top of the tree is suitable to the holiday spirit, and while Sherlock pouts because John won't let him climb the ladder and put it on himself, and when John cheers him up with a kiss that tastes like butter cream frosting - that none of this, any of it, is really a labor at all.

Yes, his feet ache when he finally sits down in front of the fire with John, curled up on the floor against the quiet movements of his chest. Yes, for some reason, it is that much harder to stop sneaking cookies off of John's plate. Yes, he's more aware of the chill in the air that seeps ever more presently into his skin. And there's no case, and he has no patches, and John dumped the last of his experiments in the rubbish bin yesterday.

But he stops explaining his surprising levels of comfort away with hormones. He has compiled enough evidence to believe there must be something to this family business after all. Something that, despite all the other things, makes everything worth it.

Maybe, now, it's just the feeling that he was right, and in all his years of smug assertion and rates of success, he has never been happier to be so completely and utterly right.


	8. Chapter 8

_(Sunday, December 25th; Week 15)_

Sherlock nudges John gently in the side. He remains stubbornly asleep, the vague furrow of his eyebrows the only indicator that his touch has any effect. He sighs, pushes harder. With a snort, John is abruptly jarred awake. His eyes take a moment to focus in on Sherlock, as he rises up on his arms.

"Hmff? Time's it?"

"Nine past three."

His eyes make the sluggish journey to the clock to focus in on the blinking numbers.

"Three."

"Yes."

"In the morning."

"Three in the morning, yes."

"Three in the bloody morning." John falls back against the pillows, burrowing deeper into the pocket of warmth created by his body, and he looks so strangely endearing when he is more foggy-minded than usual that Sherlock forgets to be appalled at his redundancy. "Never thought you to be so eager for presents."

Oh. Sherlock frowns. "Presents? No. There's a case, John." The grin that jumps to his lips is so reminiscent of a wolf that John, cozy in his wool pajamas, shivers.

"A Christmas case. Well. That surpasses any of my gifts, now, doesn't it?" John grumbles, but he rises laboriously anyway, getting dressed as Sherlock - already sporting a loose white t-shirt under his unbuttoned waist coat and swirling trench - flits impatiently around the room in excitement, in a manner that no one should posses only three hours into the morning. Not even on Christmas morning should anyone be that excited.

Finally seeing John turning to him with tired eyes, he sweeps from the room, tugging a stumbling John behind him down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the living room. Abruptly, he turns to John in the doorway. He stops. Waits.

John is still very obviously tired. For much the same reasons, he only blinks at Sherlock as he stares expectantly back, and waits, as he often finds himself doing, for Sherlock to reveal the inner workings of his mind.

This time, though, the only indicator he gets is a slow rise of Sherlock's eyes to the ceiling. It takes a few glances, but finally John follows his gaze.

The smile he gives Sherlock before leaning in to take his mistletoe kiss is not a tired one at all. And though not as wide or manic as the one he'd been subjected to at this morning's news, the smile John receives in return is no less bright or warm.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he says. Sherlock doesn't answer, only winks, then strides out the door, his hand still warm in John's.

 

_____

 

The scene is no disappointment - or rather, the lack of it. Only a great many scattered puzzle pieces, blood cracked and fading on some of their edges, in the middle of a missing woman's home. Sherlock is delighted when he is allowed (with dubious consent), after all of it has been tagged individually as evidence (a laborious, unnecessary process that Sherlock waits through in consternation) to take it home ( _and solve it! Finally, a real puzzle!)_ , and he fears John may be right - this is the best present he has received all day, and it has only just begun. Things can only get worse from here on out, undoubtedly. Then again, he can now devote his day to the solving of it, and what better a present than one with an extended period of use?

While they wait for the individual pieces to be placed in evidence bags and sealed, John draws Lestrade aside and pulls a small, ribbon-tied box from his jacket pocket. Sherlock does not think he has ever seen the detective inspector's face go as light as when he lifts the lid and draws out a long, golden chain with an old watch ticking steadily on the end.

"Where - How did you get this?" He whispers in amazement, letting it swing gently from side to side in its suspension.

John's gaze darts to Sherlock. "I mentioned buying you a watch of some sort to Sherlock, and he told me a bit about your great uncle, and what he did in the war, and how you always used to carry on about that old watch of his. I asked where you kept it now, and he told me how it broke, and, well, there were some deductions, and maybe a bit of lock-picking," he adds, hurriedly rushing on as Lestrade's eyebrows rise and an amused smile tugs at the corners of his lips, "and then I just got it fixed and cleaned up a bit. I've a mate who does this sort of thing, so, really it wasn't -"

"No, it's - it's everything. Thank you," he cuts in, still unable to tear his eyes away from the trinket. "I didn't think it could ever be fixed. Really - thank you both," he finishes, finally resting his eyes on each of them in turn and bestowing a look of tremendous gratitude. His trembling fingers place the box tenderly into his pocket, and if Sherlock notes that his eyes are a little more pink around the edges than before, he doesn't mention it.

John's face is filled with equally great relief, which turns to surprise when Lestrade pulls an envelope from the same pocket. He smiles a little, gesturing at Sherlock. "I'm your Secret Santa, but I suppose it's a little something for the both of you. Go on," he says, and Sherlock takes it in his gloves hands.

Thick paper, not too expensive, but quality cardstock. Detailing on the sides, but no noticeable signatures or signs. Typical hallmark variety. Very light, no bulk or bulges. Coffee-stained in one corner; Lestrade has obviously had it for a while. But there was little else evident about the card - this was one envelope that would have to be opened before its contents became clear.

Two tickets tumble out into his palm, and dreading football games and rugby matches, he turns them over in his hands.

Oh.

" _The History of Crime_ ," John reads, from over his shoulder. "Hey, is that - that's the new exhibit they're opening down at the museum, right?"

Lestrade nods. "I know you've practically memorized the history of crime, Sherlock. But, uh, they have artifacts, and hands-on demonstrations, and you can always make fun of them for how little they know next to you, and, well -"

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs quietly, thumbs still stroking over the glossed edges. He can't deny that he'd thought about going, but now that the opportunity has presented itself, he is… excited. Yes, that is the quickening of thought behind his forehead. It could be fun. Yes, more than fun. Especially if he can stand and awe John and bystanders alike with his vast knowledge.

More interesting, though - Lestrade and his acceptance. And his encouragement. It should not surprise him anymore, as the evidence all points to his John-like caring. But each time it happens, it does. And another kindness, in the fact that Lestrade only smiles (and if he notes that Sherlock's eyes are a little shiny around the edges, well, he doesn't mention it, either).

"If there's anything I've learned with kids, it's that you have to make time for yourselves, too. You… you both have something good. Don't forget that when the kid finally enters the picture." With that, he gives them each a nod, saying, "Happy Christmas, we'll have the evidence brought to your place in an hour or so, gotta run it through the system first," before turning to the questioning tech at his elbow.

They stare after him, John finally turning to Sherlock, still speechless. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, and then at last he just laughs. Laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until it's impossible for Sherlock not to join in.

"Why are we laughing?" he gasps at last, and John, shaking his head, tries to get enough breath back to answer.

"Because it's Christmas, and that's what you're supposed to do when it's Christmas and you're so chuffed you might fly to the moon."

Despite the logical inaccuracy, Sherlock can't help but to agree.

 

_____

 

John makes tea while Sherlock muses in silence over the puzzle. He won't be able to draw any conclusions until he has his hands on it, of course, and can begin fitting it together to see its purpose, but it's still there in the corner of his mind - nudging through, pressing slightly in just that barest desire for attention that Sherlock is so desperate to give.

He leaps out of his chair when the doorbell rings (miscalculating his size within the allotted space and narrowly missing John and the steaming mugs in his hands) and circles the techs like a vulture as they unpack the boxes. They glance at him uncomfortably each and every time he wanders too close and peers down his nose at them (which is most of the time), and find themselves subjected to predatory glares when they arrive with new packages.

Sally Donovan, however, heading the drop-off, is unphased. She fixes him with a look of disdain and ignores the one he returns in favor of marching over to John. "Here," she says, shoving a prettily wrapped package at him.

He sets his tea down, taking it in confusion before his eyes widen. "Oh, right, Secret Santa. Shall I -?" At her nod of assent, he shreds the wrapping paper. Sherlock, busy snapping at the man who just dropped a box in front of him, watches from the corner of his eye.

John lets out a laugh. " _1001 Relaxing Hobbies_ ," he reads. "Thank you, Sally, really." Her lips flare into a soft smile at their private joke - something Sherlock, despite all his powers of intellect, would never understand.

"Just in case this ever gets to be too much for you. Though it's sort of a done deal for you now," she says in resignation, looking pointedly in the direction of Sherlock's expanding abdomen.

"In it for life," John says, echoing her tone, but there's a twinkle in his eye as he says it, and Sally just shakes her head and throws up her hands, that rueful smile still playing on her face.

"Never would have thought. But you're alright, Dr. Watson. And you're good for each other," she says, a near echo of Lestrade's earlier words.

John's smile goes softer. "Thanks. Happy Christmas, Sally. Have a good one."

Sherlock watches as he shows her and the rest of the team to the door. The silence that clicks shut behind them is a strange one, and Sherlock focuses intensely on John as he bounds up the stairs, still holding the paperback in his hands.

"When we're too old to move, this might come in -" he stops, noting the heavy gaze resting on him. His feet come to a stop in the doorway as well, and his head tilts to the side under the sudden scrutiny. "What?"

There's an unexpectedly cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, a coiling, roiling he has not felt for a long while. Not since the accident at the very least, but this is more of an uneasiness that seeps its way into his skin, coaxing goosebumps into being on the pale surface. He resists the urge to shiver. "Would it ever - would it ever be too much for you?"

John blinks. "Would what - ?"

"This," Sherlock asks, making a vague gesture in the air. "All of it. The crime, the danger, the pregnancy, the child. Me," he tacks on to the end. It is not an unfounded suggestion. Before John, it happened all the time. If it ever happened at all, because most of the time, no one ever got close enough to leave.

The expression on John's face is unreadable, as is his stoic posture, in a manner that is almost unbearable to behold. "What do you think?"

Sherlock's eyebrows draw down over his features in what he knows John would deem his deduction face. But that is because he is drawing conclusions, and these heavy thoughts spinning and weaving themselves into existence are hard to pull from the brain. But he tugs gently on the threads, and softly, they come undone beneath his probing, testing fingers, their tangles gone.

John, the army doctor, adrenaline addict, who returned to London and found it offered none of the excitement he was so desperate to possess once more. Sherlock and the lifestyle that came with the invention of his vocation were filled with much of that excitement. It was unlikely he would leave it for anything else. Despite John's love of some of the quiet things, - his telly, his tea, his fire and Christmas and all his other odd, little traditions - this is a man who keeps a gun in his desk, who chased murderers for him in Manchester, who leaps out of bed with him in the early hours of the morning to investigate crime scenes, and who, more astoundingly, perhaps, leaps back into it with him in the late hours of the night. He killed a man the day they met, he offered his own life to kill a madman, and now he was shacking up with one as the father of his child. Yes, there were bad days. Once, John had been gone for two of them following an enormous row. But he always came back. Always, at the end of it all, he was there. Mostly - the images he has saved run through his mind, each and every one, and as he touches upon their glossy finishes he knows it to be true - John still smiles, and that is enough.

"No," Sherlock says at last, the simple word a definitive ending to their conversation. John nods resolutely, setting the book down on the coffee table in favor of a box of blood-stained puzzle pieces.

No, he is definitely not going anywhere any time soon.

John helps Sherlock into a sitting position on the floor - he grumbles at the assistance but accepts it anyway - and they begin to spread the multitude of shapes out into an unfitted mosaic that comes to dominate the limited space of the living room. The many small pieces and their jagged edges are like the shattered remains of a stained glass window as they rest on the carpet, and Sherlock thumbs carefully over their sharp, vibrantly colored corners.

"What is it?" he finds himself murmuring out loud, as they pour another box's contents over those already strewn across the floor. A message, a picture, a sign. The chosen hues form no links in his mind; what could be writing becomes unclear when the edges of each piece drop off into another, and it is gloriously, wondrously maddening.

"Let's find out," he hears John say, as if from a distance, and the man beside him bends over and begins his own perusal of the mass of shape and color.

Hours tick by, their careful study punctuated by soft sighs of exclamation as pieces come together, or John's occasional trek to the kitchen to fill his plate with gingerbread men. Outside, London practices their Christmas in all its boring, predictable ways. Inside, Sherlock and John solve a murder.

That is, until two beeps of John's watch suddenly jolt him upwards. "Augh," he groans in passing, putting a hand to the crick that has developed in his back. Then a glance at his watch, and, "Oh, bollocks." He stands up as fast as he can, still grimacing a little. The exclamation pulls Sherlock from within his mind, because it is a sound of true terror and apprehension.

"What? What is it?" he demands, as John extends his hands down towards him.

"Christmas dinner. We're supposed to be there in an hour, and it's a forty-five minute drive down to the country at least. Oh god, what if there's traffic?" John hooks his arms under Sherlock's armpits and draws him up like a child, bump nudging into John's own side as he brings Sherlock to stand. Absently, he brushes off the ratty t-shirt Sherlock has taken to wearing around the house, and grimaces. "We need to get a move on."

Sherlock scowls. Trust familial obligations to deny him something fun. On Christmas, of all days. "We'll just tell them we were watching the Queen's message and lost track of the time," he offers as an alternative, already attempting to sink back down into the puzzle, but John shakes his head sharply.

"Uh-uh, you never watch the Queen's message. Mycroft will know in an instant and then we'll never hear the end of it. He'll probably tell them we were shagging, just for the fun of it."

"For all his varied and numerous faults, Mycroft isn't that petty. Though we  _could_  -"

"No," John cuts in at the gleaming that has sparked in Sherlock's eyes, though there is a small smile attempting to break through his stern countenance. "I am not going to stand in front of your mother when she'll be able to tell from the moment I walk in the door what we were just up to. Let's just go for a few hours," he reasons. "Then we can say that you're feeling a little queasy and go home instead, where I will gladly then shag you into the carpet."

Sherlock looks a little miffed, and realizing he isn't going to be able to convince John that this is a very bad idea, a very not good plan, and a very bothersome little excursion, he marches definitively towards the bedroom, head thrown into the air. "I'm on a case anyway. We don't have sex when I'm working."

"You know, for most people, this is a holiday," John calls, trundling up after him and looking just the tiniest bit crestfallen.

Throwing the doors of his armoire open, Sherlock smirks at his reflection in the mirror. "John. We are not most people."

 

_____

 

Moving about one another in their living space as easily as time and affection had dictated, it wasn't long before they were jumping into a taxi and heading towards Sherlock's old home. John, festive in his green jumper and red undershirt, was looking remarkably cool. Sherlock, on the other hand, feels unaccountably nervous as they begin to pass into rolling hills and fluffy white sheep under open grey skies, like ugly yellow clouds that have sunk too low.

God, he hates the countryside.

He feels a reassuring hand on his thigh. He turns to see John staring knowingly.

"Oh, shut up," he says, but it just sounds tired and only serves to draw another reassuring squeeze from John. Oddly enough, he does not feel reassured.

He does not understand why he is not reassured, and that is perhaps the most annoying thing of all about the whole affair - not understanding the feelings he's faced with when it comes to his family. More deeply, Christmas dinner with his family. Even more still, Christmas dinner with his family and the absent-yet-still-sort-of-present addition to their family. It's a confusing mix of unidentifiable factors that coalesce into what could be nausea or gas or anything of the like that he's also been suffering. None of it is pleasant.

But he remembers the look on John's face as he told him of the hopes Harry's seemingly uncaring confession had dashed within him. And how, despite everything, he desires above all else a family that works, for once in his life - well. It's enough to make any man try, especially if they're doing it for someone like John.

So he grits his teeth, stares out at the ugly, dim-witted sheep and takes deep breaths.

They're walking up the long, weaving path of paving stones to the door when Sherlock finally loses his battle with calamity. "John," he questions, and his voice is oddly high and strangled. "What if - what if they don't approve of the baby?"

"When have you ever given a damn what your family thinks?" John asks for an answer, turning back and staring him down.

"But you do. You care," Sherlock blurts, and it is the first time John has seen him toying with his scarf in such a nervous manner. He sighs, taking hold of his hands and drawing them firmly down to his sides, giving a strong squeeze to both.

"I want them to be happy for us, yeah. But I don't need it. This? Us? We're making our own family. That's what matters." He looks a little surprised at himself, and the words he's just uttered. But he pushes it back for another day, looking back at Sherlock.

His own lips quirk upwards at the logic, and hand in hand, they finally find themselves before the door. It is Sherlock who raises a steady arm and rings the bell.

 

_____

 

They make their announcement right before the dessert is brought out, and after the initial shock, all hell seems to break loose inside the normally contained, posh Holmes household.

Mummy Holmes cries like Mrs. Hudson (and John  _knew_  there was always a reason Sherlock was so fond of her), and assures them that she has never been so happy. In between sobs, she gives trembling monologues on how no one ever imagined Sherlock to be the fatherly type, or how if the child is a girl it simply must be named after her, or how John really is such a nice, fertile boy.

John goes a little pink at this, when he's not busy attempting to focus politely on Sherlock's great uncle Reginald, who is loudly telling him all the details of his third pregnancy. Aunt Sue from the other side of the family nods along, interjecting equally loudly with tales of her own child birthing experiences.

Sherlock muses that it really does take a lot to make a doctor blush, but his family is quite adept at living outside the norm.

Cousins James, Jack, and Jerry (the lack of parental imagination there obviously foretold their futures) get into an argument over who will be named godfather. Mycroft is forced to get involved when Sherlock makes it abundantly clear that none of them will receive the offer. Sherlock hopes Mycroft does not imagine he will be bestowed it, either, especially if he keeps getting involved in his business. Mycroft slyly interjects with a comment on all the authority he has involving certain government documents, and now John is quickly disengaging himself from Reginald's fierce grip -  _the bedpans, boy!_  - to calm them all down. Things only get worse when the triplets beg to touch him, a custom Sherlock has never understood and will never permit. This time, Sherlock's glare is enough to subdue them, as he keeps his coat firmly fastened as an obstruction around his waist. Unfortunately, he thinks, glancing down, that trick isn't going to be able to work much longer.

Dessert -  _typical figgy pudding, how…traditional_  - arrives to save the day, and for a few minutes there is a gloriously peaceful silence. Until Aunt Gale, with all her namesake's bluster, crossly questions their lack of marriage and the horrifying event of having a child out of wedlock. Sherlock's youngest cousin, who has been texting moodily from behind the curtain of her outlandishly red hair at the other end of the table, erupts in a fiery discourse on the trappings of the past and the freedom offered by the modern world. Sherlock wonders if hers is a name he ought to have learned by now, but dismisses it when her alternative viewpoint ends with a sneer at the fact that he'd be eager for a child at all with his illustrious career. Ignorant youth.

He's frightened at how much he has begun to sound like Uncle Reginald, and as such chooses to abstain from the vicious debate that follows, only responding with curt, cutting remarks when a question is asked of him. And the occasional smile, directed at John, who looks as exasperated as he feels.

Despite everything, there are some pleasant moments. Great Aunt Matilda promises to knit things, which John seems intensely thankful for, despite the fact that if the calendar is anything to go by, knitted wear will not be suitable until their child has grown out of it. Sherlock is able to engage in a fine discussion with old Uncle Samuel on a new chemistry experiment his students at the university are conducting (Sherlock himself has already brought it to a successful conclusion, of course, but in the absence of his own experimentation he'll take what he can live through vicariously). John holds uncharacteristically quiet cousin Mary's newborn, and Sherlock feels strangely - fluttery, at the sight.

They excuse themselves rather hurriedly when someone suggests caroling. To their immense relief, no one puts up a fight - all seem to think they are now entitled to some alone time on Christmas. Huh. His hands fall over his stomach. Good things indeed.

They step out into the cold night, and silence hits them like a physical force, as cool a balm as the air that surges into their lungs.

"Well," John says at last, as they burrow together on the street corner in wait for their cab, "that could have been worse."

Sherlock's not entirely sure what he was so worried about in the first place. But the memory of it - or maybe it really is just the cold - has him shivering and stepping closer into John's space.

"They're really just sort of… loud. And opinionated," John continues, musing as the hand he has around Sherlock's waist steals over the crest of his abdomen, barely visible through his thick greatcoat. Sherlock's nose crinkles.

"Overbearing. Odd. Odious," he supplies. None of them ever got along for more than five seconds at a time. All of them quirky outcasts due to their superior intellect and lack of sociable skill. To varying degrees.

"Maybe it's just because you're all the same, deep down."

"Please tell me you did not just suggest I'm like any of them."

"Well, it is in your blood."

"But you actually enjoy spending time with me."

"God knows why."

Sherlock answers John's teasing smirk with a scowl. They sit in silence, before John finally speaks again, softly, just as the cab is curving around the bend, its headlights cutting through the dim and murky night at the top of the hill like a sunrise.

"Personally, I think you all just care a lot. Too much love for one room, though you don't like to show it. Otherwise why else would you all gather in the same room for the sake of a few hours every year?"

"Personally, I think you've had a bit too much wine," Sherlock answers, even as snapping replies - that it's Mycroft's tyranny and damned familial obligation that keep him coming back - die in his throat. Because John looks happy, and relieved, but even just the slightest bit...guilty, and even if he's off and wrong in his deductions or just another foolish dreamer, Sherlock cares too much to tell him otherwise.

 

_____

 

"You coming to bed?" John asks when Christmas stretches over into Boxing Day. He rises from the floor, turning to look at Sherlock as he collects their mugs.

A sixteenth of the puzzle lies completed before them, if Sherlock's estimations are correct (and they usually are). It's some sort of tribal inscription, though Sherlock doesn't know its origin. The markings, pictographs, by what he can see, must be some sort of message, though the final shape of the puzzle will likely be the key to unlocking their meaning. His gut twists in excitement at the thought, and he has to work to subdue it as he gives a quiet shake of his head. How can John sleep when there's work to be done?

John sighs. "Remember, we agreed on at least five hours."

"Yes, fine, fine, I'll be up soon," he answers with a dismissive hand that clearly signals  _leave now_  as tactfully as is possible from Sherlock. John looks as if he's considering arguing the point further, but at last he just shakes his head and leans down to press a goodnight kiss into his hair.

The soft pressure sends a warmth tingling down from his scalp, and then suddenly, a jolt. With the help of the furniture he is up like a shot, nearly knocking their heads together as he rushes to the tree in the corner.

"Sherlock?" John questions tiredly, coming to stand beside him, uncertain about these pesky mood changes.

"We forgot to do presents."

"But we don't ever do presents. Not on Christmas, anyway." John is right to be confused. Following the first disastrous Christmas gift affair (it would put the Gift of the Magi to deep and unfathomable shame), they'd decided that their presents to one another would be spread throughout the year as seen fit, or come in the form of special gestures. Sherlock picking up beans on the 23rd of last June without being asked, for example, was not something John would ever forget. So Sherlock can see the furrows spidering themselves across his forehead, and for some reason it makes him more nervous than he's been in ages. His tongue feels unexpectedly dry in his mouth, his lips more dry and cracked than usual. He takes a deep breath, produces a black box from behind his back, and sinks to his knees.

The smile drops from John's face. "Sherlock?" he questions again, and rather than sounding nervous, he seems remarkably cool and collected as he surveys his partner's anxious face. "Are you about to ask me to marry you?"

Sherlock frowns, eyebrows knitting over his eyes. "I would have thought it obvious that when a man gets on his knees in front of you, that is the general point. Alright, yes, that was an unfortunate choice of words," he continues, rushing on when he sees the amused grin growing on John's face, "but - John. John."

John is laughing, laughing at him, and oh, this is not how this is supposed to be going. He sinks back onto his thighs and glares up at his flat mate. "John," he whines, as John's shoulders continue to shake. "You are  _not_  doing this right. I'm being serious."

John sobers, though he's still giggling slightly when he speaks again. He crouches down to Sherlock's level. Sherlock, still slightly wounded, shrinks away from the hands that reach out to rest on his shoulders, and John calms himself with a sigh, just barely shaking his head.

"You don't even like marriage."

"Demonstrably untrue." _I'd love anything to do with you, you idiot._

"Wh-why now, then?"

"Christmas, festive. Needed a date I could remember."

"No, I mean - with everything else that's going on, just - why?"

"The kid," he answers quietly.

"What?"

Sherlock groans, scrubs his hands over his face in an uncharacteristic gesture of frustration. "Why do you have to be so intolerably slow, John?" Using the other man's shoulders, he levies himself up and stalks over to the couch, throwing himself down - though it is done with more watchfulness and a protective hand - upon the cushions.

"Your parents divorced at a young age. Most of your childhood friends were the product of happy marriages. The deaths of your parents while you were abroad left you yearning even more so for a happy, typical family, especially when things fell out further with your sister. That, combined with your desire to connect with my family even in the face of their somewhat revolting mannerisms, and the extensive detail to which you had informed me previous to our relationship that you planned on settling down and marrying a so-called 'nice girl' has led me to believe that you would rather go into parenthood as a married couple. In addition, studies show -"

"Toss the studies," John practically growls, marching over and throwing himself over Sherlock, braced on taut arms with hands splayed by his head. "You are enough for me, in whatever capacity we choose to live. Have I ever made you feel as if you weren't enough for me, just as we are? As if there's something wrong with this?"

Sherlock's head moves slowly back and forth, his eyes locked with the fierce blue gaze that burns into his own.

"No? Good." He relaxes, letting his head dip down to rest against Sherlock's. Though softer, the look that is leveled at him is no less serious. "So, marriage, yeah. God, I'd love to marry you," he says fondly. "But when you - when  _we_  - really want it. Not because it's convenient."

Sherlock breathes out slowly. "I think… I think those terms are agreeable."

A wide smile cracks across John's face. "Good, yeah, me too." And with that, he stands up and heads back upstairs with not another word, humming a carol of some sort under his breath. Sherlock is left staring after him, eyes narrowed in contemplation, listening as the notes are all that's left, and then, silence.

He looks again at the black box in his hand. Bites his lip as he pockets it, and for a long time, he does not mention it again, returning instead to the puzzle as the fire dims slowly in the grate.

 

 _______

 

 _(Saturday, December 31st; Week 15 continued)_

Sherlock is a little more than halfway to cracking the code and its puzzle by the time the New Year rolls around, and John is only just able to coax him out onto the roof to watch the fireworks being sent off over the Thames. Having spent the day with some mates at the pub, he's eager to spend the last night of the year just sagging happily into Sherlock against the chill of the air. Sherlock can't say he's entirely unhappy with the arrangement either, and willingly steps out onto the roof.

There is silence, quiet conversation, the occasional expression of wonder from John as the lights shatter overhead.

But as the countdown begins, John turns to face him in earnest. "Well. This is it. Everything's going to change now."

Sherlock is silent, watching sparks gutter and die.

"New year, new baby, new life - all of it, really."

He makes an agreeing sound in his throat.

"We'll never be the same after this."

Sherlock turns sharply to meet his eyes, which, as the sky above is clear in the lead up to the climactic explosions, are the only shining, shimmering things in the dark. "With each passing moment we are different than we have ever been before. Time moves on, and we cannot go back. But, John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

He smiles, and it is an uncharacteristic brilliance that leaves his face glowing and luminous - the brightest thing John has ever seen. "We are still a consulting detective and his army doctor, and that won't ever change."

He no longer has doubts, but it doesn't stop his entire being from feeling gloriously, wondrously alive when John leans in and says, "No, no. Some things will always stay the same," before kissing him under a sky that bursts and fractures in the splendor of light and good things yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This officially ends Part One of the fic. We're halfway there! :) In honor of that, I just want to take a moment to thank each and every one of you who is reading this. Your readership has been the biggest encouragement, and I could not be more pleased with and flattered by the response.
> 
> On that note, I do have to add that unfortunately with this milestone comes the slowing down of updates. I go back to school next Tuesday, and the final chapters of this still need writing. Due to those factors and several others, updates will begin again on Thursday the 5th of January and be weekly from then on. Sorry if that's an inconvenience, but I'd like to do my best on this and that's what it's going to take. Thank you for your understanding.
> 
> I hope you all had a marvelous holiday, and I wish you many New Year blessings (best of those being Sherlock returning, eeee! xD).
> 
> See you in a week!


	9. Chapter 9

_(Tuesday, January 24th; Week 19)_

Nothing immediately changes, and seeing as they have completely (well, almost) adjusted to the lack of normality that comes with life as they know it, they continue to see the New Year in cheerfully.

He cracks the cipher. An underground fighting ring's more lurid affairs surface as a result. Mycroft threatens him with an actual knighthood. Sherlock agrees to take on a new, boring case for him instead (though not without griping about it the whole way home). When there aren't cases, he has other things to occupy his time as well. He spends more time with his violin, reads a few more of the journals he'd been meaning to get around to. Bothers John, because sometimes it's just too easy.

Then, of course, there's the ever present thing that has come to dominate their lives. In the new year, this was their sole and collective focus. As if he'd really want to focus on anything else.

The stirs continue, getting stronger, with the occasional glance in a mirror showing his growth as the days continue to pass. His movements around the apartment become more measured and careful, there are more stops taken to catch his breath, and he no longer dashes around crime scenes with his usual vigor. The coat still buttons over his mass - but now only just.

His spindly fingers more frequently come to rest across it, in the father's subconscious desire to protect; in his very, very conscious expression of wonder. As if he holds the world inside his very hands. When John spies it, he softens, and that far-away look glazes over his own eyes. And together they might sit there for hours, just silent. Wondering. Even after the many weeks, and with many weeks yet left in their journey, it never fails to be miraculous.

"John," Sherlock says one day, very matter-of-fact from the couch. He sits up slowly. His forehead wrinkles in concentration for a few moments, but he holds the rest of his body utterly still. John, typing softly at his computer (if you could call it that, he'd been sitting there for an hour and barely written anything; how, exactly, did the man keep a blog?  _Questions for another day._ ) turns to face him. Waits patiently, until at last, Sherlock exhales.

"I think I'm feeling the baby move."

John's blue eyes nearly bug out of his head, and Sherlock barely has time to throw up a protective arm before John's dashing forwards, nearly knocking himself out on the coffee table in the process. He sinks into a crouch in front of Sherlock, and when he turns his face upwards Sherlock can see that he is glowing with excitement; might as well be the sun with the way he is staring up all alight and incandescent. Sherlock can feel the pull of his orbit, drawing him in; closer -

His lips fold, and he subtly draws himself back. He fixes a curious, calculating eye on his partner. "You're a doctor, John. Surely you know that at this point only I can feel it."

Despite the logic of it, John looks crestfallen as he sheepishly rocks back on his heels. His eyes fall from where they've been gazing into Sherlock's. And again, that quiet look of contemplation takes over his face, but now it's troubled. He exhales, and then "I can see it all happening," he says quietly, not looking up. "You put on weight. Your back hurts - your ankles, your chest, your calves. All of a sudden eating an entire bag of carrots raw isn't a challenge for you. And so much more, and I can watch it happening, and that's nice. More than nice, it's -" he looks around, as if the words will peer out at him from the corners of the quiet room, but none do, and he can only shake his head. "But you - you get to feel it; you get to live it." Finally, he takes hold of Sherlock's gaze again, resting his hands gently upon his knees. Sherlock watches as their fingers entwine; realizes he has moved to grasp them. Eyes dart up, search.

The face is a map without edges and with infinite spaces; craggy pits that are dark enough to quicken his breath, light eyes that speak of home, wrinkles of age and time and the fine, waving hairs that glow gold when struck  _just so_  by the sun. And so he could end up searching forever as he sails for its borders, but everything he needs for now is right there.

His fingers grasp tighter around the darker, shorter ones, and tug John up easily. His footsteps turn towards their room, John trailing behind him off of their entwined fingers.

"Sher -? I mean, it's not  _bad_ ," he hurries, distracted as he works to keep up with the lithe strides he's being tugged after. "I love it, god I do, you know that. It's just - I'm not making sense," comes the huff of aggravation at last, but he remains ignored. Sherlock glides silently through the flat, flicking off lights as he goes, until they come to their room.

"Sherlock?" he prods again, uncertain whisper hanging in the air and left without a response.

It's grey and gloomy in the room, just enough to see by before their eyes have adjusted, and Sherlock carefully lies down on his side, and brings John to curl next to him. The bed shifts under their weight, coming to cradle them easily in their worn-out places. Fathomless and near black in the dim light, John's eyes are questioning but guileless as Sherlock positions them until they're lying parallel, toes brushing against feet and knees curled towards one another. Long, pale hands stretch to encompass John's face, and the palms feel cool against his warm skin. Sherlock resists the prickling at the back of his neck, and whispers, "Close your eyes," his thumbs stretching to glide over the eyelids in their fall as John acquiesces.

"Hands, on my abdomen," he instructs, and yet again, John is more than willing to comply, and in the dark Sherlock feels the gentle press against his skin. His lips quirk at the ready way in which John answers his demands, and his own eyes slip shut before he can dwell in that pleasure any longer.

For a moment, just long enough for John to draw the hesitant breath before a question, they drift in the inky wake of silence, letting it fold over them as the covers that tangle around their limbs. It settles, heavy and thick, and when Sherlock speaks, it seems as if from a great distance, as if spun from nothing to echo from the hidden spaces of the room, or the city, or the universe.

Then, he speaks.

"Nineteen weeks ago, you became a literal part of me, in that your genes came to fuse with mine. Typical process, procreation; advancing the species as is necessary - or so it seems. Millions of cells, growing, dividing. The small births of hundreds of thousands of them, all expanding at impossible rates to complete their seemingly impossible tasks. Their sole mission? Creation," he breathes, thumbs continuing to stroke restlessly over the rough skin of his face. "Creation, just below the surface."

He calms his racing heart, begins again, throat dry and voice deeper, softer, cracking at the edges. "At this very moment, there are fingers right under where you're resting yours. Blood, and bones - eyelashes, even," he whispers, feeling John's own flutter wetly against his passing fingers. "The nervous system is developing - nerves that will produce feelings, synapses that will create sensation and reaction, a brain and a mind for a consciousness. A being, John.  _Concentrate_  - do you feel it happening under your hands?"

The silence stretches on, ebbing and flowing with the rise and fall of their chests in time. The only sound in Sherlock's ears is the heart beating steadily inside his chest, and the echo he knows is only in his head but gives him comfort all the same. He feels that steady silence settle over him, pulsing, thrumming, because it is not just silence - inside him, there is life, and it is miraculous and vibrant and noisy and alive.

John's voice is slick on the air, not cutting through the quiet but joining it, his quiet, breathy sigh of unadulterated wonder pouring into the silence in his own beautiful noise; becoming part of the growing life as he has always been. "How can I not?" he states simply, voice thick, and then he is folding closer into Sherlock, until there's no room for even silence between them. " _Thank you._ "

The words are unspoken, passed from one mouth to another in their meeting.

They don't move from the bed, don't move from their positions - just sit and listen, all connected in their hands and foreheads and knocking knees and genes alike as the hours drag on, before sleep cups its hands and beckons them down.

 

 _______

 

 _(Wednesday, January 25th; Week 19 continued)_

Sherlock has been up for hours when John finally emerges from the stairs. Wordlessly, Sherlock pushes his empty mug in his direction, remaining at his end of the kitchen table where he is musing over an encrypted code he'd received in the post sometime in the night before (though the circumstances surrounding its presence were almost deplorably easy to guess at). Only letters remain before it finally makes sense. John gives him a pointed stare (that is pointedly ignored), but takes it up nonetheless and sets to the kettle.

"You know," the voice filters into his subconscious - not an intrusion like the others; just an extension of the thoughts running through his mind, because John is always there as it is - and he tilts his head a fraction to pay him spared bits of distracted attention. "We haven't talked about names yet."

 _S_. He ticks off the symbol, a surge of excitement filling him that quells at John's words. His eyes at last dart up, assessing. "Would it not be more prudent to wait for the gender screening?"

"Those aren't always accurate. Don't want to be unprepared," he lectures over his shoulder, in the process of pouring the hot water. Steam funnels upwards, disperses through the cold, and John walks through the cloud to join him at the table. He remains standing as he pushes the now-filled mug across to his flatmate. "Careful, it's hot. Besides, we can finally call it something. Instead of, you know, 'it.'" His nose wrinkles on the word.

Sherlock grasps the handle; leans back in his chair as his eyes peer into nothing, chin resting against his prayerful fingers. John sips his tea, knows to wait. But after five minutes of lengthy silence, he leans forward. "Sherlock?" he prompts.

"A," he murmurs, a smile of full on glee taking to his face as he writes down the letter with a triumphant flourish, filling in the spaces above the curious symbols. When he looks up from the tea he gulps at in excitement, John is giving him a glare that would have anyone who wasn't Sherlock withering. The smile disappears from his own face, and he sighs, shrugging as his hands come up in a questioning gesture. "What? You really expect to have this conversation now? One more letter, John, and then I can probably decipher the rest. Our culprit is minutes - well, seconds, I was being generous - away from being caught. Our baby, however, is safely in the womb for, what, twenty-three more weeks?"

"Less, with your habits," John mutters, a sight anxiously, and Sherlock narrows his eyes right back.

"Please, stop your needless worrying," he sneers, though it lacks any real venom, "and return to the issue at hand - which is that cracking this code will lead to an arrest. Isn't that what you want? Justice, and such?"

John is still pursing his lips, ignoring his cooling glass, and though Sherlock tries to devote his full attention to the key, at long last he drops the pen and folds his arms on the table. "John," he begins seriously, summoning his patience, as he has learned to do throughout the years. "it's -"

"It's not needless. My worrying. I'm just - trying to be part of this." He inhales, wets his throat with tea before speaking again, collected now. "And now I do feel as if… as if it's something alive," he says more softly, and the words are almost shy, but he presses on. "Not an 'it' anymore. Something that deserves a name. Our something."

Sherlock stops. Remembers the night before, the longing in John's face and in his searching, roaming hands. He works to unclench his jaw. "Soon, then. We'll talk names. But the work - for now, it comes first. For now." Even you, John, must know that. Especially you.

He understands, the desire to give this being a title. The moment it has an appellation, he knows things will instantly become more real. When pronouns shift; when what exists only vaguely becomes concrete; when their child is no longer just some far-off, deep-inside creature of fantasy but a he or a she with a calling - he knows how John longs for it; how he's rushing towards that moment when his conversations can have purpose and meaning.

But it's a slow process, this suspense. A waiting game.

But there are games to play that don't require waiting, and as Sherlock keys in the last of the letters and things click into a place, a grim smile fills his features.

Until those moments of infinite importance, that were hinted at in the beginning and become only more unbearably ungraspable as they get closer, there is this.

He doesn't know how to say it to John; how to convey all this in his words, so he settles for taking their empty mugs and dropping them haphazardly beside the sink. Might even wash them, later, but there are murderers to catch.

He's beginning to realize, though, that his life is now a balancing act. And as the precariously placed dishes slip over and crash into the bottom of the sink - John heaving a resigned sigh behind him as he gets up to gather the shattered pieces - it strikes him that he is trembling on a ledge with the intention of leaping. And no plan for where to put his feet before the landing.

"You're at the surgery today," he says before he reaches the door. John, cursing as his finger slips across a sharp edge, nods over his shoulder. Summoning all his will, Sherlock turns back looking small as his hands knot before his front. "Would you like me to wait for you?" he asks, voice quiet, and he's already picturing the torturous hours of waiting; the moments in which he'll be sitting around, completely aimless, as he waits for John to come home and be with him in this.

Because John is the practical one, but the shaking in his hands before he moved in and everything changed is enough to attest to the fact that there's a little bit of him that craves the impractical, too - the mad dashes and chases and crime scenes and all of it, enough that he giggles at the end, so hard he needs hours to catch his breath. And now that Sherlock cannot do it all himself any longer, he needs that bit of impractical John. All of John, really, and he's willing to wait for all of him if it means the pieces he needs are there and fitting where nothing else does.

A smile spreads across John's face, slow and brilliant like the dawning of the sun. Incandescent John. "I think I have a couple of sick days to spare."

And just like that, he lands, soft and feather-light upon the ground.

 

_____

 

Lestrade marches them back into the flat, hours later, the three of them soaked and covered from head to toe in mud - John more so, as he gingerly takes off his socks to head upstairs. Lestrade helps Sherlock up the steps, or maybe it's the other way round. Both men sag heavily, the trip seems to take ages - a fact they decry with much groaning.

"I cannot actually believe," the Detective Inspector mutters crossly, dragging them upwards, "that we chased a dog. A  _dog_. For fifteen blocks. Had to take the entire bloody bag of thumbs."

The look Sherlock shoots him is equally perturbed. "There was no 'we.' I was annoyingly placed on the sidelines." The glare he sends into John's back is easily ignored, and he continues to sulk.

They sway into the living room, unsteady feet leading them to the upholstered couch. John makes a wounded noise when he notes the streams of water and dirt streaking off of their sides and leaking over onto the fabric, but his own exhaustion quickly forces him to stop, dragging himself over and settling down next to them with a huff of resignation.

"John. Make us tea," Sherlock grumbles, still put off. He gives him a feeble nudge.

John ignores it in favor of resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder and heaving a deep sigh. "Lazy sod. How are you ever going to take care of this kid?"

"John," he murmurs, as aghast as he can muster. "We will not be feeding our child tea for years yet."

"Need all that time to improve your technique," John shoots back, but rises with a groan nonetheless. "Lestrade, you're free to use the shower."

"Might just take you up on that," he answers, but he doesn't move from where he's sprawled on the other end of the couch. His eyes are closed, and Sherlock takes a moment to observe him. Not in his natural state of command, still with that inexplicable air of authority about him.

That, however, does not go unnoticed. "I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I can feel it when you watch me, Sherlock. It's creepy."

"I am not creepy," he sputters, returning to curl resentfully at his own end of the couch.

"Well," Lestrade drawls, and Sherlock has to peek out from under his eyelids to see if he's teasing. He is, a large smile sitting at home on his mud-stained, bruised face, and Sherlock grumbles something even he knows as unintelligible.

They listen to John bang around the kitchen; the sounds of water in the tap and cups being set out. But it isn't long before Lestrade is shifting up and turning to face him, his face now serious. "Listen, Sherlock. I just wanted to say thank you, I s'pose."

His brows draw closer together. "For what?" He shifts until he's cross legged on the couch, head turned to watch as the DI scraps a hand across the back of his neck.

His mouth twitches, but he doesn't look ashamed when he speaks again - just looks at him with dark eyes full of a soft, hazy gratitude. "For not running off." He casts a glance towards the kitchen as he stands, before he turns back to Sherlock, hands shoved in his pockets. "For waiting, at least. You - you're learning the important things."

"It's all important," he replies, though he is starting to understand his meaning. He leans, forward, steepled hands supported with the arms on his muddy knees.

"Well then, for prioritizing. We didn't think you'd be able to do it, you know," he says, voice even softer. "People were…well, with your lifestyle, we were worried, I guess. That you wouldn't be able to handle this. But you've proved it, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock is fading further back into his mind. Because he remembers it, too, the fear. The fear that came with the complete lack of control, or the harnessing of it - when his brain took over and the case became its sole focus; when the world dropped away in the heat of the burning, cranking power of his mind. Or even, on the dark nights when boredom weighed harsh and painful in his skin, and he yearned for something else to chase it all away - yes, even he remembers curling in a corner of the room and just breathing in the scent of his own skin, or curling into John and squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as they could go. Because with Sherlock Holmes, as he had learned from a very young age, there was always the chance that the expansive powers of his brilliant mind would leave his heart far, far behind.

"Proven what?" he asks, and the words quaver slightly.

Lestrade, lacing up his shoes, lifts his head again. "That you're a good man."

With those simple words, he stands and strides to the door. "Well, I'm out - can't have this mud soaking into -"

"You are, too," Sherlock interrupts, and his hands clench down on the sides of the cushions. When his head rises tentatively, wet hair plastered around his cheeks and eyes wide, Lestrade is hit with vicious images of the addict - of the poor, sniveling messes he'd gathered up and restrained in their maddened frenzies, of the mornings spent coaxing coffee and sleep into those tired limbs. But only reminded in the sense of how different this healthy, strong, happy… glowing creature is, from the years long lost and faded.

He smiles, the look lingering between them for moments, until he is out the door and down onto the shadowed streets.

John just misses him, shifting in slowly with the mugs tilting dangerously in his hands. He stops, frowns. "Where's Greg?"

"Oh, he - he had some business. At the, um, morgue." Blinking rapidly, he rises and takes his cup from John in exchange for the kiss he plants on the soft side of his cheek.

Mm, yes. Important, this. Very.

"Oh. Well, that's a shame, isn't it? But I guess he does have to take a look at the thumbs we found."

"Yes. Very interesting thumbs."

"Very."

Sherlock is still staring with intent down at John, close as his stomach will allow, and John only at last breaks his gaze with a sigh. "I'm going out to do some shopping. If you want to go look at the thumbs - mmmphh."

Sherlock smiles against his lips, and John brings up a hand to curl his knuckles over the high cheekbones. "Mmm," he murmurs as Sherlock pulls back with a last wet smack, "you're welcome. You should shower or something first," he adds, brushing a bit of the mud off the shoulders of his coat and grimacing when it hits the floor. "Don't want to catch your death."

"Please. You know as well as I do that the cold has almost no affect -"

"- better safe than sorry," he interrupts, and Sherlock rolls his eyes but nods anyway. He frowns after a moment, though, surveying John.

"What about you? You did more of the chasing than I did."

"And tackling," John mutters, wincing as he stretches for where his coat on the back of the chair from around Sherlock's bulk. "I'll have one when I get back. Nobody in Tesco's is going to judge me. They've seen me there in worse states."

Sherlock is reminded of the Prize Poultry case, and smirks. "You could… join me?" he questions, and John imagines his eyebrows practically waggling with the statement and shudders good-naturedly.

"Not with as big as you are now, no," he says firmly, but places a warm hand on his forearm just the same. "Go, get cleaned up. Examine your thumbs. I'll get takeout for when you get back."

Sherlock gives a short nod. "Those terms are agreeable."

"Good, thought they might suit."

"As long as it's not curry."

He gives another grin, then shrugs his jacket on. "Fine, no curry. You need anything while I'm out?"

"I ate all the crackers last night. Get more."

"Sher - we only got them just yesterday."

"Eating for two."

"No, you're not."

"Fine, eating for a very inexplicably hungry me," he grumbles, sweeping past John and heading for the stairs.

John laughs behind him, long and loud, and the sound of it follows him up into the bathroom where he catches the sight of himself in the mirror - smiling, huge and unhidden. Many times, John has claimed it as 'his' smile, and considering the evidence, Sherlock is loathe to contradict him. But when his gaze falls to the flesh he bears, as he peels back layers of wet clothing, he figures John might need to learn to share as well.

"Sharing my food… sharing my smiles…" he murmurs to the swollen globe. "Nothing's really just mine anymore, is it?" He turns on the hot water, twisting the knob and waiting for it to warm, hands tucked around his mass. "Not even John. You'll be wanting his attention, of course. Already have the lot of it - he fusses over you already, you know. Making me sleep. Telling me to stay behind on a criminal chase - even when he knows I'll do my best to keep up as it is," he says, a touch sullenly, though he tries to stop - because really, what example would that be setting?

He steps gingerly into the spray, sighing as it courses over his tense muscles. "It's… good," he continues musingly, lathering up. "Not always, though. But mostly. Mostly all the time." He has a hard time explaining all the things that John is, but when he considers the fact that whoever is in there is also part John, he decides to just skip right over it. He reaches for the wash cloth; begins to massage his belly. He tries to think of more words, but none come.

When he considers, too, the stark truth that their own blood is one and the same, he decides maybe it - he, she - can really just feel it, too.

But there's a steady stream of sound coming from his throat, a humming sort of noise, and though it's an aimless, wandering tune, he doesn't try and stop. It's been a long time since Sherlock sang in the shower, but John does it all the time - he'll never admit to how in the days before they'd shared a bed he'd rest his head against it and listen to John sing all sorts of things in his shaky tenor, darting away when the stream of water was abruptly cut off. How he'd feel the steam seeping under the door, drawing the heat into his very skin. But Sherlock has known for a long time - years, now - that John Watson would not enter his life without making any sort of mark. And there were some big things. Literally big, like things that grew and expanded and became alive inside him. But there were also small things, like the quiet tune that warbles out into the moist air and doesn't stop until the water does.

Until John outside, unbeknownst to Sherlock, slinks away from the door outside and heads down and out into the street, a quiet smile refusing to leave the place where it has become almost permanently etched onto his face.

Sherlock, meanwhile, is toweling himself off. He shivers as the cold air hits his skin, again when he drags pressed trousers up, soft and clean and whispery. By now, his silk shirts don't fit - a fact he'd originally decried with much bashing and banging around the flat in a sort of angst-ridden rage - but the paternity clothes are nice enough, the extra, elastic length under the starched buttons of the top serving almost as well. He pulls it on, cool and light, thinks briefly that their child will wear jumpers, like John (for warmth's sake, of course) and heads downstairs.

His hair curls damply at the base of his neck, just brushing the rim of his collar. It's cold, all twisted around on his skin and raising goosebumps, and he pushes a hand through it, remembering to grab his scarf.

He blames it on the cold. Not any sort of premonition. The way his hackles respond is just a reaction to physical stimuli. Not a cosmic disturbance, not fate. Just cold, dead winter.

But he can't deny the fact that when he opens the door to find a very familiar woman standing there, the base of his spine continues to prickle.

"Oi, handsome. Gonna let me in? It's bloody freezing out here!"

Bloodshot eyes, slight yellowing around the edges. Pupils slightly dilated, could be the light from the doorway, most likely from the alcohol. Corroborated by near-imperceptible trembling in fingers - of course he catches it, though. He's looking for it.

"Harriet Watson," he says shortly, tight, fake smile answering her toothy, equally false, grin. "Won't you come in?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Sex. Discussion of miscarriage. General asshole!Sherlock, but then again, when is that not a warning?  
> Additional Notes: Yesterday was this fic's One Month Anniversary! Thanks to all who have been keeping up with this so faithfully. As I've probably waxed poetic on many, many times before, the response to this has been truly amazing and inspiring, and I can't thank each and every one of you enough who have commented/bookmarked/recced/kudos'd/etc. Have a cream tea on me :)

_(Wednesday, January 25th; Week 19 continued)_

The first time Sherlock had met Harry, she'd dumped one of his own experiments over his head.

In an effort to make John as uncomfortable as possible, she had simply stopped by one evening; no warning at all. An evening during which they had been otherwise… engaged.

"Sherlock - Sher… I think there's someone at the door," he'd moaned, tugging half-heartedly at the strands of sweaty, inky hair slipping between his fingers. His back arched off the bed, part trembling indecision and part desperate desire to come right then, right now.

Sherlock's fingers, preoccupied with gripping his hips to keep him steady, dug in sharply at the words. They clawed their way down John's thighs, the trailing red grooves evidence of his displeasure as he worked more fiercely to keep him distracted. John practically howled as Sherlock's tongue probed his slit, the rest of his mouth hollowing around the head of his dripping cock.

"Boys! There's someone here to see you!" came Mrs. Hudson's voice from below.

A second followed it. "Johnny? You up there?"

"Shit," John panted, and Sherlock growled in warning as his lover's breath hitched in something that was not arousal.  _You stop breathing only for me,_  he thought, crawling up his slicked body and savaging his lips, invading his mouth with his hot, searching tongue as John gasped and squeezed down around it, dragging his teeth across the velvet surface before his hands came up in sudden remembrance and pushed on Sherlock's chest. At first, he resisted, digging his hips firmly into John's with a twist to elicit a delicious groan, but it wasn't long before their grappling turned into Sherlock tumbling down onto the floor. He righted himself and sent a livid glare in John's direction, cock jutting angry and red from his body as his face, also annoyed and flushed, stared up at the man on the bed.

"Why have you stopped?" he asked, in the most agonizing display of patience he'd ever been asked to put on. John, however, had the audacity to ignore it, frantically tucking his rejected penis back into his trousers and doing his best to clear the sweat from his face.

"Because that's my sister out there, and I am not going to let her listen to you fuck me," he hissed, digging around on the floor for his discarded shirt. Sherlock, spying it an arm's length away, grabbed it from the ground and didn't let go, even as John approached with a menacing narrowing of his eyes. "Sherlock," he warned.

He gritted his teeth, but threw it at John's face anyway. Hard. "Why don't you just let her join in?" he said sarcastically, standing up and gathering his own strewn items of clothing and cleaning himself up as best he could under the circumstances.

"She's a lesbian, if you've forgotten. And sort of  _my sister_."

"Yes, well she's interrupting as it is, so might as well," he answered, and stepped to the door.

The door which was abruptly thrown open by a panting Harriet Watson, who took two steps inside before pouring a mixture of questionable substances all over his head.

"Oh, no you don't, you pervert!" she cried, kicking him in the shins so hard that he didn't remember falling to the ground, only that it felt very nice and soft against his cheek.

"Harriet," John said, aghast, kiss-red lips standing out starkly against a face that had gone very, very pale. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I heard some, ah, noises, and…well, isn't he… _debauching_  you?" she whispered, huffing from exertion, the bowl dangling from her trembling hands.

"Yes, that's exactly what I was doing before I was ever so rudely interrupted," Sherlock bit back, not daring to open his eyes. He still couldn't recall what, exactly, had been in the bowl, the contents of which were now dripping down his face in alarming quantities.

"No," John cut in quickly, "no, no; Harry, this was entirely consensual."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed. "But you're not gay."

John put his face in his hand. Sherlock, terrified to do the same, curtly requested a towel. Harry, giggling in a way that was not as nearly as nervous as it should be and really sounded more like the hyena's amused cackle, answered his plea. The visit that followed was cut short, as Sherlock's skin began to turn a questionable purple color about ten minutes into a conversation about boundaries and the limitations of labels on sexuality and  _no, Harry - wait, what the fuck do you mean, 'you knew all along?'_

Well. There were some small blessings, at least.

All things considered, it's no wonder that they're now sitting in terse silence on opposite ends of the table. Sherlock does not offer her tea. He is not sure whether not she will pour it over his head as well. As he is finding it difficult to discern the reason for her sudden appearance, he decides it is better to not give her any ammunition whatsoever.

"No experiments, I see," she quips at length, pointed gaze resting on the empty stretch of kitchen table between them.

He scowls back to her end. "Potential fumes would be bad for the offspring."

"'The offspring', listen to you," she practically crows, leaning back in her seat as her fingers clench and unclench on the kitchen table in search of something that isn't there. "Bet John was the one that got in the way of your precious chemistry. He does like to worry."

"Sometimes, he's the only one that does," Sherlock replies, voice low. But the deep, threatening rumble only earns him another teasing grin. She leans forward over the table, her eyes impossibly large as the overhead light hits her face. "How are you finding it?"

"Finding what?" he snaps. He has no time for her mind games; for her at all, really. He has held John countless times as he came apart under the heavy weight of thoughts concerning his ungrateful,  _unnecessary_  sister and the troubles she drowned herself in every night and every day, so he finds it a little more than difficult than usual to sit placidly on his end of the table and care at all about her petty wants and selfish desires.

"Fatherhood," she says with a careless gesture of her shoulders. "Pregnancy. Gotta be hard for you. All those… limitations. All those feelings."

He bares his teeth in a sickeningly sweet grin that looks more like a wolfish grimace. "You'd know." He is determined not to think about the face John would give him in response to that comment. Harry's face, however, remains startlingly impassive, and something in him boils all the more for it. "Do you care at all?" His eyes dart over her, his inspection probing deep into the corners of her mind; all the places people think they can hide from him. But no one, no one ever can, and no one ever will.

Well, except John. But John was always the exception.

"Does it hurt you to know that you've given up everything for the bottle?" he whispers, standing slowly from his chair and looming over the table. His hands curl around its edges as he presses into her space. "How does it make you feel to know you lost it all because of that deep, addictive desire? The need to have it spilling down your throat and rotting inside you like acid? How does it feel, Harriet," he whispers, and he knows it's cruel, also knows he doesn't care, because John's face and his red-rimmed eyes and his quaking shoulders are all flashing in front of his mind, again and again and again, images that he won't ever forget, "to know everything you could have been, and everything you'll never be, all for your twisted obsession?"

She is staring at him coldly. The lazy, bleak look of before has been replaced by a calculating stare that belies her own inebriation, and he wonders briefly if sometimes she only is as drunk as she feels; if maybe she's so far gone by now that one more never matters and she can just fake it well enough. But her voice, sharp as the edge of a knife, cuts into his thoughts. "Yeah, it does. Like hell. And you know what?" She stands, too, and mirrors his posture. He's gazing right back into her blue eyes, which should be foggier but now seem to pierce him straight to the core in a way only one person's eyes had ever done before. "I did lose everything, and now I'm here prepared to lose it all again." She's trembling now, and at first he thinks fear, but he doesn't smell it - now he can taste it on the air, metallic and sharp. Anger. "I came here to ask for help, because maybe, maybe - maybe I do need it," she admits, biting her lip. "Maybe I'm ready to do something about it, because I'm tired of trying to live with who I'm not when I know all I want to be." Her glare turns dark again. "But oh, great, I come here and get John's wonder boy," she says, snide voice loud in the stillness of the quiet kitchen. "Perfect Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, who's ever so good at mucking things up in the relationship department. You're not so flawless either, sunshine." She laughs, low and cruel. "Don't think I've forgotten the night he showed up on my doorstep because you'd -"

"Don't -" he interrupts, eyes slamming shut on the memory, and he can feel her smirk.

"It grew to be too much for me. Will it grow to be too much for you?"

"We're not the same person."

"Oh yeah, but we're not very different, either. Both of us, addicts in our own right. Both of us, and the first thing we do is turn that against each other." Her whole posture is like the rind of a lemon - bitter, curling, a sickly yellow, and with a sudden venom she marches away from the table, headed towards the open door. "Sometimes John is blinded by his own addictions. Because he has them too, you know. And I think you're one of them. You might just be the addiction that kills him, just like ours will kill us in the end."

"Wrong," he answers, head snapping up. His eyes lock with hers as she turns back to face him. "Because in all my years of addiction, it never felt this right. And I know what it's like to be clean." Clean, cleansed,  _whole_.

"Maybe I just want to know that, too," she says, and though her chin juts from her body and her eyes are hard, she can't disguise the quaver at the end of her words.

Sherlock doesn't shift, but his quick inhales bespeaks his disbelief. "You had… you had a child inside of you and you didn't even care. How could you possibly care now?"

He hopes Harry realizes that this is one question not intended to cut. As he stares at this woman - beautiful (she shares John's genes, how could she not be?), cunning, and so fallen by the wayside - he cannot understand how anyone could feel this and want to give it up. Or worse, how they could just not care one way or another. Because, as Sherlock is learning, there is nothing more important than this.

She does seem to sense it; the desperation with which he pitches his question and the lurking uncertainty in those stone grey eyes. Senses it, and sags against the doorway in response, all the fight draining from her. In seconds, the tension in the room had fizzled, a palpable exhaustion taking its place and settling over their ragged forms. "But I  _did_  care. I did. God, how could you even say -" her voice cracks, and she swallows, and meets his gaze. It is  _broken_ ; that is the only word, and not for the first time that night he holds back a shiver.

"But at the same time, I didn't even… I just didn't  _realize_ , then." She laughs, but it is not a sound one usually associates with laughter - cold, dead, it crawls up from her throat like the cry of a wounded animal. "It was all foggy-like; the days just sort of passing and happening with me stuck in the middle. There I was, one day, with Clara and a baby in my tummy and a house and a real smile. A real smile, christ, I can't even remember what that feels like. Because then there I was again, with no house, no wife and no…no baby." Her voice slips on the end of the word, as if the razor's edge she's held herself on for so long is beginning to tilt. But, relentlessly, she moves on, almost talking to herself. "And none of that really sank in, not really. Not until Johnny came home and started gushing about all the things that I don't have. Not anymore. And he started talking about it, and for the first time - it hurt. Really, really fucking hurt, the kind of hurt I can't even - can't even hide away in a flask."

No, he thinks. He doesn't imagine the loss of anything so great as a life would weigh easily on anyone's conscience, whether or not they were actually guilty of anything at all. Can't imagine it now, and the involuntary movement of his hands towards his stomach - to soothe, to protect, to hide away - says it all. His expression remains unreadable as he waits for her to continue, but it appears she has nothing left to say, and in response, he can only drop his head.

"You're right, Harry. We've both done some terrible things. Said some horrid ones. But we also both have John." He steps closer, maneuvering around the kitchen table to stand tall and proud in front of her, daring that equally proud and strong woman to meet his gaze. "If you're willing to do this, for all you've lost, then do it, fine. But you have to be willing to go all the way for John, because I'm not going to stand idly by and watch you hurt him with your failures anymore. This is it, Harriet." Though he's beginning to suspect she's far from the only one with failures.

He extends one long, pale hand.

She looks up into his face, and he recognizes the expression more as one he'd see on his own face than as one he's ever seen on John. Searching, desperate, grasping at threads and unraveling them in time - because sometimes there are just too many, and it's hard to know which to choose. Which one, like in the old children's story, you can pick up and follow out of the dark forest to home. For Sherlock, it was a limping, invalidated army doctor with a cane and an unbearably ordinary accent and an unbearably ordinary past and a self that was so unexpectedly, wonderfully extraordinary.

For Harriet Watson, it comes in the unlikely form of a man who grasps her hand and shakes it firmly, then leads her into the living room, trembling in relief and anticipation alike, to wait for John to come home. John, because he's saved someone once - more than once - and Sherlock knows he can do it again.

But the minutes tick by, with the quiet spaces between their breaths lengthening into an uneasy stillness. He calculates the average time it would take someone to make a trip to the shop and come home; finds that John has been gone abnormally long. Waits some more, just in case something came up. Perhaps he went to the pub. But he would have told Sherlock. Texted him, at least. But the phone he pulls from his jacket remains stubbornly silent, its dark screen and empty inbox giving him nothing, even when he sends a text demanding that he come home immediately.

He calls. There is no answer.

Leaves a message. Mentions Harry, who would have in any normal circumstance merited a dash home.

The door remains closed, and Harry's eyebrows continue to fall in anxiety. Sherlock's own face betrays nothing, but he is becoming more and more aware that something is amiss. He quells any sort of emotional response, knowing it would do no good, and turns to her with a deep breath, standing from his chair.

"He does occasionally forget to charge his phone," he reasons. "Come. Set up in the extra room. We'll all…confer in the morning."

Strangely, the morgue has all but fled his mind, but now it dawns on him that perhaps John went in search of him there. He did mention takeout before…

"There are sheets in the cupboard," he says, and with an abrupt turn heads for the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?" she shouts, scrambling up from the couch and jogging down the stairs after him.

"Mortuary."

"Why?"

He shoots her a look, gloved hands already reaching for the doorknob. Why is no one else ever able to just keep up? "Might find John there." He says it with finality, but it seems she does not find this to be the end of the conversation, for she whisks under his arm and plants herself firmly against the door. He peers down at her as if she is a mildly interesting spot found on the bottom of his shoe - or, at least, that's what he hopes he conveys. She, however, seems entirely unphased, and stares back with a haughty set to her jaw.

"I'm coming with you," she declares.

He blinks. "What purpose, exactly, would that serve?"

"Me, helping you find John. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, yeah?"

"If he's there, I can assure you I will have no trouble spotting him myself."

She glowers up at him, in a look identical to one Sherlock could swear he has seen on John's face multiple times. Usually in the context of unidentified objects in the tub or mildly insulting comments. "Fine, then. Me, not bored and cooped up in your flat." With that, she does not give him a chance to answer, merely turns to the door at her back and marches down into the street, hand already out and hollering at a cab.

His eyes narrow, assessing, and he takes measured steps down into the street. "You're… remarkably persistent," he comments, and the words are uncertain. She's pretty sure he only means it as a statement, if he knows what he meant by it at all, but she throws him a smile nonetheless, stepping towards the taxi that slows on the asphalt before them.

"From what I've heard, you need a Watson in your life. Allow me to fill in, in my brother's temporary absence."

He'd like to point out that there is really only room for the one Watson in his life, but given the parameters of their previous deal he holds his tongue. John may be the only Watson he needs, but this is what he has. It will do. For now. And if he's looking after her for John, then really, might as well, he thinks grudgingly. Could be interesting, too, he supposes - in light of the fact that this is his only experience with a female version of John, he could spend the time gleaning information on traits that could be passed to his child if it happens to be a female.

And even if it's only a game to distract himself from the fact that John is not answering his phone and John had promised to come straight home and John was not there and not anywhere, well then - might as well.

He hops into the cab, and they make for Bart's through the busy London streets.

 

_____

 

The morgue is deserted.

The thumbs are in their box in the freezer, labeled clearly in Molly's neat handwriting. They are untouched, the surgical tape at the edges of the container still freshly sealed and uncurled at its edges. He slides it back in and shuts the doors, eyes drinking in the empty room, filtering it all through the great hard drive of his mind.

The white area does not possess any scent of the food John promised to get or the distinctly muddied, sweaty odor that he would have had, had he made the trip here at all.

The light switch that stiffens in place and become more difficult to toggle if it's been a while since someone has used it remains stuck the first time Sherlock puts his hand to it. No one had used the lights for a few hours, then.

Not even traces of dusty footprints, and the custodial staff weren't due on this end for another half hour at least.

The overwhelming evidence rules unanimously - John has not been here today. His mark does not rest on this room in the way it touches every place he goes. The marks of life, even, are absent, and the morgue remains a resting place for only those who have departed the world and no longer lay their own claim to the label of humanity.

"He's not here."

Harry, fiddling with a microscope at the counter behind him, snorts. "Well, I could've told you that." She makes a vague gesture at the entirety of the room. "So, is this where you work?"

He sweeps out of the room, a sigh at her answer. "I don't have time for inane questions."

"Oi!" she yelps, as the door nearly catches her in the face. She darts out after him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged strides. "Well I don't know then, do I? Johnny never tells me about what you do; in our short visits he doesn't shut up about you enough to tell me what it is, exactly, that you do."

"Consulting -"

"-Detective, only one in the world, yeah, yeah, I know that part. But the rest of it, the bodies and ick and all that. D'you ever cut people up? Ooh, d'you ever fire a gun?"

"Harry," he cuts in, and the word is terse as he turns around, curling over her. "John is missing." Oh, people are so tiresome when they're unable to keep up. And talkative. God, are the chatty ones tiresome. Useful, yes, but not right now. Not at all right now.

Her face drops. "What?"

"I'm not going to repeat myself." Doesn't think he can, even. Something cold twists in his chest.

"You - you sure he didn't just, I don't know, pop off for a drink?"

He brandishes his phone, marching off towards the glass-plated doors of the entrance, coat swirling in agitation around his knees. "No text. No call. No answer." For the first time, though his steps remain even, he has to swallow back an unsteady breath. "No reason why a trip to Tesco's should take so abnormally long."

For a blessedly long time, she is silent. And then, "Maybe we should go to the store before we jump to any conclusions?"

He throws her a tight smile, one that would be genuine if not for everything else warring on his face. "There's that empirical Watson streak."

John, like the doctor he was, waited for everything, all the evidence, before a diagnosis. Sherlock, confident in his assumptions - because he never guesses - often forged ahead more fearlessly. But as they head into the shop together, Sherlock is almost uncommonly glad to put off the final decision.

And yet, when they meet back up in the center, and Harry's hopeful eyes turn up to his, Sherlock is forced to acknowledge at last the inevitable. It strikes like a disease, unnoticed at first but then suddenly looming and terrifying, and as he reaches for his phone with hands that shake in a betrayal to his calm, blank face, he names it; diagnoses and defines it so it cannot hide no longer.

He presses the phone to his ear, only waits for the click before he begins speaking. "Mycroft. It's John. He's - he's gone."

 

_____

 

Mycroft is already waiting for them in the living room when they ascend the stairs. Sherlock knows by now not to ask, and merely moves to stand in front of the chair he's sitting in. Sherlock's. He suspects he knows that John's things are now sacred territory. Deserving of respect. It is for this reason, he suspects, that he turns his back to it as he addresses his brother - not that the sight of its emptiness produces a similar feeling of loss at the base of his throat.

"Well?"

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Please, you probably already have a whole file on her," he snaps, and why doesn't he understand that these trivialities were never important but are now even less than that, because John is not here and he is missing and -

"I don't have a whole file on him, though, whatever the hell that means," Harry jumps in, physically asserting herself in the conversation as she stretches around Sherlock for Mycroft's hand. "Harriet Watson, which apparently you know, which is sort of creepy. And you -?"

"Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes. Pleasure." He flashes a toothy grin.

She nods, realization setting in her features. "Ah. Holmes. Explains the creepy."

"Can we please turn to the matter at hand?" Sherlock growls, an impatient tick settling about him in the way his hands dash through his hair and come to stroke restlessly across his abdomen. "John is missing."

The crack in his speech at the end of the word - unable to be hidden, the broken slide of it shattering in the silence like glass - brings both of their eyes to him, twin gazes resting heavily on his shoulders in some inescapable way. He does not want their sympathy. He does not want their understanding. He wants to find  _John_ ; John so that he can give all those things and make tea and sing in the shower and disrupt his thoughts and just be there, like he needs to be.

Only now is it sinking in that John is not here, and that he is not anywhere.

Sherlock swears to chain them together; knows it would be easy to swipe a pair of cuffs from Lestrade and how equally easy it would be to throw the key into the Thames, and let all chances of their ever being separated wash away with it. He has seen John in the hands of others too many times to let anything happen now, now of all times, especially when -

His fingers stop in their mad roving, and come to rest stiffly by his sides. Panicking, caring at all, would not help. He knows that; practices it in earnest every day with his work. But it's difficult not to do so when part of him is inexplicably linked to part of John. The part of John that cares, the part of John that is good - it's all in him, and maybe some of it sparks through his blood and boils up through his throat. Just that taste of it, harsh and heady on his tongue.

He swallows, clears his throat of the bitterness and lets it wash away from his mind as well. He meet Mycroft's cool gaze with his own, even and unabashed.

"I don't care what you have to do. Find him. Bring him back to me."

In his mind, he is already running over all the places John has been or could be. He is running through lists and files containing all those who know enough to seek out John in order to strike at him. He pages through those containing the names of people who would simply want John. He sees their hideouts in his mind; maps out all their strategies. Locked away in the caverns of thought, he constructs the story behind every version of the kidnapping of John that has ever happened. And he knows he could do it - would do it if it killed him, because if there is no John then there really is no point in anything, not anymore.

But that was before - before the planning and the preparation and the union; before the bump and the books and the appointments; before what was once the only sun in the center of his universe joined with the dawning of another.

And so he knows, before Mycroft says it, knows and agonizes over it, what he will be asked to do.

"You can't go looking yourself, of course."

His eyes close on a deep inhale. "I wasn't planning on it."

The answering silence is enough a description that Sherlock doesn't need to look to know Mycroft is sporting an incredulous face. His spluttering, a rare event that should be treasured, is not even enough to banish all that clouds his mind. He pushes on. "John, were he here, would not approve of my chasing kidnappers while carrying his child. Considering it is half his, I must take at least half of his opinions into his account. Thus, I acknowledge my… limitations." He grinds his teeth down on the words, hates every single syllable of them as they glide across his lips. Hates that he must choose; that now these warring forces - at once both so wonderful, so pure and miraculous - can together be enough to bring him, tied and bound, onto his knees. "I will give you everything I know," he continues quietly, eyes still firmly shut, "and you will do the legwork this time. And you will bring him home for me."

He waits from Mycroft to regain control of his albeit limited senses, and is rewarded with that creamy, sickly-smooth voice and its assurances.

"I will do my best."

That isn't enough. Sherlock's eyes snap open; bore into his brother's. "No. You will bring him back."

Mycroft is again rendered speechless, though he quickly disguises it, adjusting his vest and straightening in the chair, a slightly disgruntled look on his face. This does not appear to be the evening he imagined, and though Sherlock would normally take pleasure in disrupting that carefully planned façade, now he is only able to wait for a reply, refusing to drop his gaze.

"I - I will."

"Good." Sherlock finally releases him from the intense stare, lighting to the window and staring out into the dark night. "Why haven't you left yet?" he growls, but the sound lacks its usual vigor. It trails off in the end, lost.

Harry jolts him back from the new dark paths he's following out into the somber streets. "What should I do?" she pipes up from where she's sitting on the couch, hands held tightly around her middle. "He is… he's my brother after all." She sends a weak smile in his direction, but he does not turn to see it.

He slides a finger across the cold, clear glass, and meeting the eyes of the reflection on the other side of the window. They are just as cold, but not nearly as clear.

"Harriet, you should rest. Calm yourself. There's more than enough worrying in this household as it is," Mycroft answers in the absence of Sherlock's voice, but she throws him a deadly look.

"Hey, I'll worry if I want to! Don't tell me to calm down when my brother's out there, with God knows what happening to him. You can just shut up and go get him back, like he says, whoever you - Mycroft," she reminds herself, and then, more vigorously adds, "and besides, I was asking him."

For the first time that evening, Sherlock feels the thin, weak pull at the edge of his lips. He turns to face her.

"However you usually cope."

She stares back, expression stony. "I usually cope with the bottle."

"Aren't you going to turn to it now? Now that you're losing everything again?"

"Are you going to turn to the drugs?"

"I'm fighting for something now."

There's an imperious tilt to her chin, a wicked glint in her eye, when she fires back, "And so am I."

The universe, in all its strange complexities, might have taken away his John, but they've given him a Watson with that same spark.

Not the same, no. But enough.

Harry does, despite all her bravado, end up passing out in the spare room as the result of a fit of nervous agitation (once Sherlock's, now long used as storage and an area for the occasional guest) while Mycroft pulls out every scrap of information from Sherlock that is available for extraction.

When he at last makes to leave, his people no doubt already all over the case, he pauses at the door.

"You've grown up, brother."

It's as close as they'll ever come to declarations.

He knows he will not sleep tonight. It is the best he can do to deprive his mind of the chase for the sake of John and the being inside him, but he will deprive himself of sleep because he can do nothing else. Not when everything in his brain is spinning, spinning so horribly, and there is nothing to quell it. No warm arms to bury his face inside until he could squeeze out all the burning in that comfortable dark; no soft words to surge over the constant, voiceless murmurings of his thoughts.

He wanders like a wraith around the darkness of the flat, dressing robe trailing behind him in a ghostly blue train. Hates the imagery of the tragic Victorian heroine awaiting her lover's return; can picture nothing else except it. He always hated those stories, because what was the purpose of an ending intended only to be sad? What was the purpose of deliberate pain? As he returns anxiously to the window, time and time again, and peers out at the weary world below, he still sees no point in it.

How do people stomach this constantly? Inaction. Roaming. He can hardly stand it; can hardly breathe when he thinks of all he could be doing and all that he cannot, and how much - how horribly, awfully, terribly - they coincide.

There were days when he got like this, before. And on those days, the pressure of a needle in his arm was enough to take it all away. And there was even nicotine, when it wasn't too bad to handle. And cases for all the other times. And then John, suddenly his new drug of choice.

Take that away, and the tremors return, more violent than ever before.

He hugs his knees to his stomach on the floor, gasps desperately for air because he has to remind himself to breathe; that breathing is important even when it feels like all the important things are gone. Because there is still this, he reminds himself fiercely, dropping his head so that his nose just brushes against the globe of flesh. He inhales, squeezes his eyes tight tight tight, and it's almost the same, but not quite.

And it has to be enough, even this, right now, has to, has to.

"Hello," he breathes, and it is wrenched from his throat as the plug from the dam, and suddenly everything is spilling from him. Spilling from his mouth in a flood and he can't stop it, can't push it all back in in time. Very, very rarely, John unbinds him like this and leaves him strewn and trembling across his chest, and the sound of Sherlock's voice in words of nonsense and other languages and other worlds carries them down into sleep, when the river of words at last runs dry; leaves his throat as cracked and hoarse as it feels in his chest.

And even now John does the same, in the mere fact that he is not here, and in the second fact that this little piece of him - these bare, few inches - is all Sherlock has left. He clings to it; lets his words fall over and into it, in the hope that they, at least, will be enough to keep it there.

 

_____

 

Harry awakens from nightmares in a strange room in her brother's house, gasping and stretching out shaking hands for a bottle she knows isn't there. She fists her hands in the bed sheets, breathes. Struggles not to cry, wonders why -  _oh._  And remembers.

She lies back, heartbeat slowing, as she stares up at a foreign ceiling and rests against pillows that aren't hers and lies in a house where she doesn't belong. Even if John were there, she could never belong. Slotting into their perfect family life - but then again, if this is how that life goes, maybe she doesn't want a part of it.

And yet, she'd come at all, and she knows that says something but she can't put her finger on it, not when the room is so dark and cold and everything else feels so far away. Instead, it begins to feel like it means nothing; like all the lengths to which she'd gone were pointless and none of it matters at all. John was never there to save her, and now, again, he isn't. Never would be. He'd given up a long time ago, stopped caring the moment his own stupid principles got in the way - but she'd believed that maybe, maybe he'd continue to fight for her if she came out punching. Maybe, if she raised her fists, he'd stand on the sidelines and cheer for her all the way.

But it all feels foolish now, and in the dark every failure rings back sharp and clear.

Against her own volition, she is creeping out the door, turning the corner and stepping into the kitchen. The tiles are as cool as ice against her skin, sliding, sliding towards the refrigerator. Every neuron fires weakly, but it knows the routine. Knows its feeble warnings are nothing compared to the instinctual, animalistic urge of addiction. She'd cry for her lost convictions if she weren't already so used to the bitter sting of regret. But she is, so she does not, and her fingers continue to stretch upwards for what she knows is hidden inside.

And suddenly, music. Soft and sweet.

She freezes, turns her head to find the source. And there, silhouetted against the window, all angles and darkness, is Sherlock. He moves like oil slicks on water, shifting, molding imperceptibly to the swells as his fingers ghost over the instrument under his chin, the bow that saws in his other hand coaxing tender, aching sounds from the strings. They vibrate, and she can hear it weeping under his gentle ministrations; feel it in the air as it warbles and cries in an agony of unrestrained emotion. Though his face, pale under the moonlight, remains impassive, she can see his pain like a shimmering curtain about him, the lonely space he occupies in the world full of the tremulous, beautiful music that she suspects he himself cannot even hear - only feel; feel in the way his hands curve around the neck and in the way his arm moves back and forth in the rower's push out to sea or the bird's gentle flaps for the sky.

She feels it flowering within her, too; the painful bloom of something sharp and deep and real. Real enough that her hands drop silently from the handle; real enough that she shuffles back to her room and closes the door.

Real enough that even as she is surrounded by the sobbing notes that bear her down into restless dreams, for the first time in as long as she can remember, Harry does not drink or cry herself to sleep.

 

 _______

 

 _(Thursday, January 26th; Week 19 continued)_

 _//_

 _Text From Mycroft Holmes (10:24AM)  
_ He has been found.

 _Text From Sherlock Holmes (10:24AM)  
_ Is he alright? Where? Show me. Now. - SH

 _Text From Mycroft Holmes (10:27AM)  
_ The hospital. A car has been sent for you.

 _Text From Sherlock Holmes (10:27AM)  
_ Is he alright? I'll take my own cab. What ward? - SH

 _Text From Mycroft Holmes (10:32AM)  
_ Floor 6, Second Hall on your right. Please do relax.

 _Text From Sherlock Holmes (10:32AM)  
_ Mycroft, is he alright? - SH

 _Text From Mycroft Holmes (10:33AM)  
_ He's fine.

 _Text From Sherlock Holmes (10:40AM)  
_ …Thank you. - SH


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY :) Have a chapter in celebration. Or, you know, some cyber-cake on my behalf. Or pull a Mycroft and get some real cake. I don't care; do what you want, babes.

_(Thursday, January 26th; Week 19 continued)_

John stares up at him from the bed, and the most frightening thing about it is the lack of recognition in his eyes.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock questions, and it is a strangled sound as he holds himself back stiffly from the edge of the bed. It was all he could do not to assault the nurses who tried to get in his way in the mad dash from taxi to hospital room. John would have frowned on the savage way he cut them all down with his tongue alone, but he cannot bring himself to care in the slightest. Another thing John would fault him for. He again cannot care, because John is abruptly in front of him, blinking and breathing and alive, and that, that is all that matters. But foreign eyes, sleepy eyes - he had not expected this. "Was he drugged when you found him?"

"Yes, Sher -"

A bitter upsurge of anger rises, acidic and sharp, at the back of his throat, and he nearly growls his next words. "What sort of drugs? Narcotics? Lasting effects? Possible dos-"

"Sherlock, he's going to be fine," Mycroft enunciates, a slight divot in between his eyes as he notes Sherlock's agitation. "The doctors have assured me that he-"

"Oh, you of all people know the inadequacies of the general hospital staff."

"-will be his regular self following some well deserved rest, which you would be due not to  _interrupt_ ," he continues pointedly, and Sherlock notes with private, fleeting pleasure the way in which his fingers clench around his umbrella stem on the last word. Anxiousness, however, again takes its place, filtering in when the silence of the room can be filled with nothing else. He swallows the feeling down, focuses calm eyes on his brother.

"How long?"

Mycroft is already examining his pocket watch, peering at the small hands before snapping it shut. "The average adult male requires seven to eight hours of sleep in order to be fully rested, Sherlock. Do with that information what you will." With that, he stands and regards the man in the bed with a keen eye before turning that inspecting gaze to Sherlock. Unused to being subjected to his own assertive stares, he bristles under the weight of it, yet does nothing but grind his teeth.

The enmity between them was not something he dwelled upon often. He knew that Mycroft, his elder, had been a prick from the moment of their first meeting on the day of his birth, and that was that. And it is humiliating to request his help; irritating in the sense that he who has always had the one-up will again have something to dangle over his head. Sherlock, as his beck and call like a dog.

But more than once, he has not abused his power, and has rather used it to help his brother. And though things do not immediately change, and probably (mostly, definitely, he'll think later, shuddering with contempt at the thought) never will, for once he bears the brunt of that knowing smirk and comes out of it not with an even deeper sense of hatred, but with one of gratitude.

He dips his head, and it is all Mycroft needs to send his stare once fleetingly back to John before departing the room.

Sherlock does not spare a moment - seconds after Mycroft's retreating footsteps have faded from earshot, he is at John's side on the bed, sitting gingerly down and cupping a hand around his stomach while the other one methodically checks and rechecks John's vitals. The eyes remain unsettlingly hazy and unfocused, but his fingers feel the reassuring beat of a pulse under his wrists, corroborated by the machines at his side, and his breathing is deep and even. He flits over various parts of John's face, wonders why he seems so little damaged by his ordeal. When, after moments of silence and the comforting rasp of Sherlock's fingers against his cheek and thumbing through his hair, he appears to sleep as peacefully as he would have done on any normal day.

He finds it unbearable; waiting for John to awaken like this. Can hardly stand that the key to finding out whoever stole him from Sherlock and caused him so much unnecessary anxiety and fear and rage, no matter the final consequences, lies locked behind John's closed lids. He wants to pry it open; to shake John awake and pour out the contents of his mind. Strip him bare and lay everything out so that he can make this person pay, and so that he can make everything okay again. Because even he remembers quick, passing moments; sneaking thoughts of hazy wakefulness, where he felt the genuine stab of uncertainty that anything could ever possibly be okay again.

John has been kidnapped before in the past. Never before when it mattered so much that Sherlock keep him safe. It had always come with that sickly sensation of falling, but Sherlock had always been there to put an end to it. Now, there had been a powerlessness to the whole situation - a weakness. And then, the other most important fact of all, was that John had never needed to come home and not be in the hands of criminals more than he did in the here and now, where Sherlock was nineteen weeks along in a pregnancy he was very much a part of, and which Sherlock would have been very, very… uncomfortable with taking on alone.

He rests there for interminable ages, thumb softly stroking across his wrists or his face or any new place that Sherlock suddenly remembers he hadn't been able to touch for a day.

"How is he?"

Sherlock's head turns imperceptibly. His eyes don't leave the deeply-breathing form on the bed. "Fine."

There's the soft press of another body next to him, the thin hospital mattress dipping further down, and then the more insistent press of a container into his hands. His eyes finally drop to see where Harry's hands are gently encouraging him to accept a clear plastic box, where a soggy-looking hospital sandwich stares dolefully up at him. His turns a skeptical eye on Harry. "You cannot expect me to eat this."

She crosses her arms. "I'll expect it and I'll make you do it. John'd have my head if he knew you were wasting your time pining away and not getting any food in you."

Truth be told, his stomach has been tugging at his insides rather insistently, now that the adrenaline and focus had worn off, but he still casts a look of distaste at the pitiful box. "I'm not exactly certain whether or not this classifies as food," he grouses, but lifts the lid anyway.

Harry looks pleased, and takes out her own lunch, pausing to give her brother a quick once-over. "I'm glad… I'm glad he's back." Sherlock doesn't point out that certain things went without saying, instead debating on how best to avoid dripping onto his coat. She presses on regardless, fiddling with her wrap but doing little to follow her own example. "We never got on; he's told you that. Not since the drinking, and - and Clara, yeah, but we always fought as kids, too. Hated him cause he was the favorite. So perfect and nice all the time; just the best person, really. And I couldn't ever be that. But I don't know… I don't know what I'd do if I lost him. Johnny always tried, even when I pushed him away. He's the only one who tried. And when I thought I'd fucked that up…" she trails off, bites her lip, then begins anew. "It always takes losing something to realize that it's important."

Sherlock looks at her sharply. "Not always."

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "How so?"

 _I never believed John was unimportant. I never believed the baby was unimportant. I haven't lost either of them, and I don't intend to. But things like the work… I appreciate it while it's there, yes, but it is only when I don't have it that it seems so much more vital._ The thoughts on his most basic, most necessary things, are left private, even as it becomes infinitely more clear how his life has been organizing itself around him, and that he - he of all people - has not taken the time to notice the change."The truly important things are obvious to us from the moment they enter our lives. Only things taken for granted need losing before their importance becomes clear," he says slowly.

"Like breathing," Harry cuts in. It's his turn to arch an eyebrow, and she pushes on. "It's the first thing we do, and then from then on, we don't even think about it. It's natural. But then, when we stop - when you hold your breath, and you feel how much your whole body just needs new air - that's when you realize what it really means to you. I guess we do realize that some other things are important. I don't like to think I took Johnny for granted, but I guess -"

"You did," Sherlock says, and though the tone is cold, there's also something hurt, in the air he projects as he faces her with hard eyes. She meets his gaze, apprehension in her deep blue eyes, but does not look away. "John was always there for you, when most people would have - should have - given up. And you have thrown it in his face and left him there many times. You needed him like you needed breathing, but you have to need him more. For him, and for you."

"He hurt me, too, you know. I wasn't alone in this."

"And I catch murderers for a living, but I don't murder them for what they've done." The comparison is hardly related, but as she blinks, he thinks it may have done the trick. "Do his own shortcomings give you the right to hurt him back, or will you rise above it?"

There's an unbearable space of time where her jaws works uncertainly, but Harry has begun to learn the merits of silence, too, and she gives a wordless, but strong, and definite; so strong and definite that Sherlock knows things have begun to change, nod.

"More than breathing," she whispers at last, when they've been sitting in silence for a long while, the steady reassurances of the heart rate monitors and blipping lights the only movement or sounds in the room. Sherlock looks over, and catches on her face the softest - and one of the most radiant - smile Harry has ever sported. He cannot suppress his own quiet grin at the sight, and turns to John to hide his face.

He's staring up at them, bleary eyes attempting to focus. "Sh'lock thinks breathing's boring," John slurs, struggling to emerge into wakefulness.

The grin on Sherlock's face stretches impossibly farther at his words. "Because it is," he says simply, and leans over to brush his lips over the creases in John's forehead. He inhales, nose buried in his hair; realizes that if he's breathing in John his stance on the matter might change.

"How are you feeling, Johnny?" asks Harry from behind him, nervously twisting her hands in her lap.

He blinks at the sound of her voice, and Sherlock can hear the sluggish reasoning going on behind his creased forehead. "Fine, Harry. Harry? You're… here?"

She opens her mouth, but Sherlock swoops in to answer instead. "Sleep, John," he murmurs, again mouthing over his face - soft, gentle caresses of his lips, so that John sinks into their warmth with a sigh.

"Later…" he mumbles, trailing off into unintelligible sounds, and then, with a last, "M'kay," he drifts off once more. With a last tender brush against the side of his nose, Sherlock straightens, pausing for an uncertain moment before he tugs at the sheets around John and pulls them more tightly around his sleeping form, like he remembers Mummy used to do when he was sick. John may not be sick, but he recalls the feeling of…safety, warmth, that came from being cocooned in such a way. It fended off the fever dreams, and Sherlock hopes it will keep John safe from nightmares. Ludicrous, perhaps, but anything for his recovery. Anything for John.

When he turns at last, Harry is looking at him incredulously. "All you've wanted is for him to wake up, and you tell him to go back to sleep? Don't you want to start questioning him, get the baddies who did this, all that stuff?"

"On a regular day, the adult male needs seven to eight hours of sleep," he recalls with a huff. "I'd expect his experience does not classify as regular, so -"

"You, the non-sleeping machine…you're letting him sleep more. That is so -" Harry wrinkles her nose. "Cute."

"The information I need to progress will be retained more easily from a well-rested mind," Sherlock explains haughtily, but Harry continues to grin at him.

"Still adorable."

"I am not adorable, Harriet, -"

"Oh, and you're going to be one hell of a father."

He stops short of his protests. Peers down at her, slightly baffled. "I - what?"

She smirks. "Just take the compliment, sunshine," she says, a teasing glint in her eye. It softens, and she takes a deep breath before beginning, "You know - you're not…Sherlock, you…Thanks," she finishes lamely, and Sherlock observes how she seems to be warring with herself over her words. He cocks his head, waiting, expectant. True to form, she bucks up her Watson courage, and meets his gaze again. She gives a rueful shake of her head. "I came here expecting John to help me. But so far - it's been you. I never thought… never thought you could be kind enough to help me. But he was right. Johnny was right." She surveys him once, assessing his form, before she inhales and steps back, smoothing down her coat pockets. "I actually have some… business to take care of in the city. Text me when he wakes up, yeah?"

He nods, still taken aback, and before she can leave he calls out. "What was John right about?"

Reaching the door, she stops, looks over her shoulder and throws him another one of those quiet, radiant smiles. "There's good in you yet, Sherlock Holmes." With a small wave of her hand, she shuts the door behind her and is gone.

"She's right, you know," comes the tired voice, and Sherlock is rounding on him again with a roll of his eyes, before he can dwell any longer on Harry's statement.

"Sleeping, John. Why are you not doing it?"

His eyes squeeze shut. "Talking."

Sherlock's face goes serious. "She's gone, I'll stop now."

"No, no…keep. Keep talking. Miss your voice. Wa-want to hear it."

Sherlock fiddles with the blinds on the opposite side of the room, pulling them down and obscuring the sun. He settles into the row of seats beside the bed, looking with earnest into John's face. "What do you want me to talk about?"

"Ever'thing."

Sherlock smirks. "That will take an awfully long time to say."

Sherlock's almost entirely positive that if John was fully in command of his faculties he'd be sporting a glare, and with his own amused smile he leans back. His back twinges in protest as he shifts, attempting to get comfortable on the thin cushions. But it's a small price to pay, as he sees John relax against his own pillows and give a gentle, dreamy tilt of his lips as Sherlock begins to speak.

He has no idea what he says, no idea how long he speaks - he just watches John, his gaze in its constant vigilance unable to look away. But John is soon slipping away, and it is not long before he unexpectedly follows, finally succumbing - because now, it is okay to do so. The room, with its beeping and buzzing, is filled with a reassuring noise, and the bed is filled with the reassuring form of John, and there is no need not to fall asleep in the reassurance that all is as it should be.

 

_____

 

Sherlock wakes, briefly, to the ghosting exhale of warm air across his cheek, and the sensation of strong arms gathering him towards a body; folding him up until he is nestled in their warmth.

Like wings, he thinks vaguely, as the soft down settles around him, and before he can ponder it more he is buffered away again into the night, only things are not as dark here as they once were. He thinks that maybe they are flying into the sun.

 

 _______

 

 _(Friday, January 27th; Week 19 continued)_

Sherlock wakes, completely, with a jolt. His hand immediately curves over himself, eyes snapping open to take stock of his surroundings when he realizes the uncomfortable plastic chairs at his back have transformed into smooth sheets, and the lights here, soft, are not the fluorescents and their harsh glares overhead. It takes less than half a second to realize he is home.

The whole second to register that he is not alone; another to note that John, lying on his side next to him, is the one who causes it to be so.

His calm blue eyes watch all of this with a soft, private joy, crinkling at the edges when Sherlock turns to him. "Hi," he says, voice slightly rough, and in the early morning Sherlock imagines he can see the warmth of that one word; see it in the gold patterns of sunlight splashed along the wall, feel it in the heat that radiates from the body next to his.

"Why are we not in the hospital?" Sherlock asks as way of greeting, voice gravelly from sleep as it rumbles from his chest. It's not a feeling he's used to - this, being stretched out, embraced completely, content and languid with a pleasant weight in his limbs. Never has he been allowed to have it much - there were always cases, almost never breaks where he could just lie down and rest like this. He's not sure if he likes it. More data needed. Initial observations include the very important fact that things become infinitely more appealing when he is doing them with John.

Sensing his befuddlement, John doesn't take long with his answer. "Apparently, you were out like a light. And the doctors really had nothing more to do with me, once everything was out of my system."

The words pass fleetingly through his mind, and he gives a slow nod in response, but the rest of his body is dedicated to taking him in again, absorbing the data John hands to him simply by existing. No traces of discomfort - John's sturdy form leaves its gentle impressions in the mattress as it always has. No bruises, no wounds, no aches. His face is empty of strain, his eyes are kind, and wide, as if he's been awake for some time. But he is relaxed, and uninhibited - nothing dark lurks within them. No nightmares, then. And his hand, even as it stretches for the one Sherlock has curled on the pillow by his face, is completely steady.

As the weight settles against him, fiddles with his long fingers until his own shorter ones can slide between them, Sherlock is not sure he can say much of the same. Sometimes, even in the quiet, pre-dawn hours, even when everything is all foggy hazes and light, it hits him - will continue to hit him, he suspects, with all the unstoppable forces of trains or water or gravity - how easy it would be to lose this. The many ways in which John could be lost to him forever. The many ways in which he almost has, and even Sherlock knows that one way or another - whether it be bullets or disease or the creeping snares of grey hair and wrinkles - it will happen. How do people stomach that, he wonders? That… knowledge. Ever present, that the end is coming. How quickly it will come, or how slowly it might overtake and drag far, far away.

These are the questions that will kill him, in the end. The ones even his brain, so vast and open and free, cannot handle, because they do not belong to it. They are much baser passions.

Despite everything, despite even that - he squeezes, tentative but intent. "And what is your professional opinion, doctor?"

John's face breaks out into a smile, and it becomes much easier to slide those questions away. Because they do not matter, here in the light. Not as long as he is here. Questions, he supposes, for another day. "I'm glad to be home." He leans forward, bestows a kiss on Sherlock's wrinkled brow as if to smooth those worried creases away. It works. "Sleep," he murmurs, in an echo of Sherlock's earlier request. "We'll talk later."

Sherlock doubts he'll fall asleep again, but pretending to do so is not a difficult choice. Not when John is holding him close, one hand stroking over the crest of his ever-expanding abdomen, crushing their bodies into alignment almost fiercely. As if he'll never let go.

"Hullo, in there! Boys!" comes the shout from down the stairs a few hours later. "I'm coming up, and you better be dressed!"

Sherlock's eyes slant to John's. "You know your sister is -"

"Yeah," John nods, before rising up with a groan, rubbing a hand across his face. "We talked last night. She sort of… filled me in on the details of everything." Sherlock will be pulling the information from him later, there's no doubt - but something in John's troubled face makes him hold his tongue. For the time being, at least. He follows John's movements, grimacing when his back again protests, spine working to stretch from its previous uncomfortable confines. John passes a worried look over at him, but Sherlock waves him off. It's ridiculous that he should be the one worrying again, all things considered. Nevertheless, he'd missed this. On impulse, knowing full well that impulsivity was not one of his strong suits and not giving a damn anyway, he leaned over and took John's mouth with his own, reveling in the pliant flesh that opened under his with a quiet exhale.

"Thank you," John breathes, the movement of his lips tickling the skin on his cheek, before he moves up to capture another. "You took care of Harry. Thank you." The quick embrace does nothing to hide the fact that he is trembling.

Sherlock pulls back, the hand he has curled around John's neck thumbing absently at his top vertebra. He keeps his face passive. "Nothing, really."

John smiles, leans his forehead against Sherlock's; looks down into his silver eyes to see himself staring back. "You hid the beer," he whispers gruffly, as if such a bland statement is somehow the most wonderful thing in the world.

Before he can reply, Harry's knocking on the open door, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Is it safe?" she teases, slowly peeking between her hands as she tiptoes into the room.

The smile John gives her is absolutely glowing, even as he rolls his eyes and flushes a bit. "You remain pure, Harriet," he says, patting the edge of the coverlet in invitation. She sits somewhat awkwardly on the side, hands sliding over her thighs. She throws John a sharp look, one eyebrow arched.

"What are you, the Pope?" Sherlock watches as they laugh, some private thing he does not understand. Unmistakably, he is… fine with it. The lack of understanding. Some things, he thinks, watching as long, shy looks pass between the laughing pair, are private.

Harry lets out a final giggle, dips her head and fiddles with the bracelets on her wrist as she regains control of her breathing. Her mouths opens a few times, but she can't seem to say anything. She looks up, sheepish. "I've been out in the city, taking care of some… things. And… well, god, I don't really know where to start."

"Trip to the realtor's office on Northumberland would be a good place to start," Sherlock drawls, cracking an eye open to return her incredulous face with a smirk of his own.

She snorts. "Well if you're so good, you tell me, then."

John stares between them, a faint grin lighting his face. Sherlock rolls his eyes and straightens, shifting to rest against the headboard. His eyes flick lazily over Harry, confirming all the things he'd deduced from the moment she'd stepped into the room.

"You've been to the realtor's office, as I've already said."

"How'd you know that?" Harry cuts in, crossing her legs and peering up earnestly at him.

Sherlock scowls at the interruption, to which John's grin transforms into a laugh. He places a hand on the globe of Sherlock's stomach, patting it almost patronizingly. "He likes it best when he can terrify you with all he knows before he gets to the explaining." Sherlock's scowl deepens, whether or not it's at the fact that John is right notwithstanding, but it only serves to make brother and sister collapse further into amused giggles.

 _Sorry_ , John mouths when he looks up at last, but the twinkle still glistens in the corner of his eye. Sherlock continues to wrinkle his nose, as if he's above their childishness. But it seems to make John laugh even harder, so there are added benefits - especially when he leans over and presses a kiss to the soft hair curling over his temple.

"May I continue now?" Sherlock grouses, and they both give nods of wry assent.

"By all means. Where else have I been today?"

His eyes go from mulishness to the keen, penetrating glare of deduction in a matter of milliseconds, and he jumps back into the threads of logic. "Realtor's office, and if you must know, it's because there's a red clay on the insole of your left shoe. You had to have come across the construction site where they've been digging up an area whose principal foundation is red clay, and that is directly across from the realtor's office. If you'd been coming from the hospital, as you were, then that would correlate with the correct side of the street." His eyes narrow, and his deductions go deeper, similar to the way he sits up and pulls forward in the thrill of observation, the switches all clicking in his mind, brain firing, firing, always firing away. "Coffee stains, on your blouse. What's the closest coffee shop to the realtor's office?  _Danielle's_ , obviously. You were there…" he frowns, continues, "after. It rained yesterday, but the mud on your shoes has dried, while the coffee stain is still relatively fresh - I can smell the mocha."

She's already looking amazed, eyebrows having disappeared into her hairline, but he bulldozes on as his fingers come to press prayerfully in front of his face. His eyes are all silver fire, sparking as his madness unfurls. "And you weren't there alone. The mocha's also contrasting with perfume. Not a scent of coffee, so a fragrance, but it's not a man's scent either, so a woman. Could be your new realtor, but this was a first visit. There's a business card in your pants pocket. So, no need to get friendly. A friend, however…" He braces for the end, then plunges in headfirst. "Blonde, perfumed - jasmine, I believe. Young woman's scent. And, interestingly enough, if I do recall, John sends Clara the Estee Lauder Jasmine collection every year for Christmas. Wouldn't have been used up by now, it's only February. So…" A serene smile spreads across his face as he finishes, lying back against the pillows, basking in the increasingly amazed look she's sporting as she gapes at him. "You've been seeing Clara."

The room is dead silent, and Sherlock takes another moment to revel in the feeling of being right; sighing deeply as the smug weight settles pleasantly over his shoulders with the thought of knowing how simple it was to impress them; to rise above it all like some sort of god. It's a heady sort of power, and he gets dizzy in the darkness of his head, so at last he opens an eye.

Harry's looking sheepish, avoiding the gaze of her brother as he stares, shocked, jaw comically unhinged at the seams. "Harry?" he questions slowly, prodding gently, as if he fears provocation - her own, and the one he might be pressing upon his fragile hopes.

It's almost too much; a tense, roiling uncertainty of suspense as she peers at her own intertwined hands, before she says quietly, the touch of a smile on her face, "Yeah. Yeah, John. Clara and I are… we're seeing each other again. We're taking things slow," she hurries on, as if in reassurance (though whether it's for her or John, even Sherlock cannot say), "but um, yeah. Yeah." She doesn't look as if she truly believes it either, and her hands continue to twist nervously, but the faint tugging at the corners of her lips is enough for John.

"Oh, Harry," he says, surging forwards and pulling her close. Her eyes widen in shock, before her arms, stiff by her sides, come to wrap around her brother's sides in reciprocation. "That's wonderful," he whispers, and her eyes, moments ago so impossibly large, squeeze shut, and her arms tighten around his strong frame, as she seems to sink into the embrace. Sherlock cannot see John's face, but he can almost literally watch the bands of tension fizzle out, draining from his shoulders and seeping away, as if they never were, the warm comfort of his sister's affections the only balm they've ever needed. He suspects he should feel disgruntled that there was something even he was unable to provide for the man who's given him everything, but as he watches them - shifting slightly, swaying forwards and back as Harry buries he nose in John's shoulder and inhales; as John's arm shifts to make smoothing strokes at her back - what he feels is quite the opposite.

It's almost like intruding upon a private moment, but it is, for now, alright. Because he has this strangest sense of… belonging.

Being a god, he decides, would be awfully lonely. Once, that might not have mattered - not in comparison with the power and wisdom it might bring. But now, he thinks, watching as they slowly draw back, smiles mirroring each other, he thinks he might, if offered, make a different choice.

John sighs, resting back again on his haunches. His face is open, honest, but a careful uncertainty appears. "I don't want… I don't want you to think I'm being… unhappy about this. Or…unsupportive." He squirms uncomfortably, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he presses on. "But as your brother, I do have to ask about the. Um. The drinking."

Sherlock cuts in, rising up as if he has suddenly remembered something of most vital importance. "Oh, didn't I mention? Harry, the business card in your pocket. Or should I say, cards." Harry looks away from her brother's worried face to grin wryly into Sherlock's.

"You really don't miss a thing, do you?" she asks, somewhat rhetorically, as her fingers dig around in her pockets to remove the two cards. She presses them into Sherlock's open, waiting hand with an empty sigh. "Go on, then. Tell him."

"Why tell when I can show?" Sherlock reasons, slipping the first card - realtor's office,  _London Living and Co., James Madden - Real Estate Agent_. He smiles briefly at the affirmation of his rightness, presses the matter from his mind even as new theories begin to spin themselves in his head of all the things its presence in Harry's pocket could possibly mean -back to Harry, even as he hands the other over to John with a careless flick of his wrists.

Shoved as it is under John's nose, he has no choice but to take it and hold it away to read the fine ink on the cardstock. "AA…Alcoholics Ano- Harry," he breathes, and Sherlock is beginning to think his partner's cheeks will split with the ferocity of his smiles. He seems to throw them so carelessly around today, but Sherlock wants to capture every single, precious one. "You're - you're finally -"

She nods, somewhat gleefully, but there's a ruthless determination in her eyes that Sherlock has only glimpsed in a certain army doctor before. "My first meeting is tomorrow. I need - I need to change, and I'm determined to do this right. If…if Clara and I are going to work at this again, then I need to be in it one-hundred percent. That's also why the agent," she says, nodding to the card Sherlock has taken back out to reexamine carefully in the growing light. "Living in the city would leave me closer to the meeting house. I'd have no excuses," she laughs, and Sherlock recalls how different this sounds from the hideous cackles of the first night she'd showed up on their doorstep. This is not the wounded cry of a bruised and terrified animal - it is as if she is spinning glass in the air, pulling strands of sunlight to create a shower of crystal that fracture in dazzling patterns and leave them all blinded. It is a sound of hope. Of miracles. "I'd also be closer to Clara, so we can work on things. And I'll be closer to - to you." She takes a deep breath. "I really, really want to be involved in this. The baby. With you. I'm not going to lose my family again," she finishes, and though just as desperately determined, the look she fixes on each of them is clear and bright.

He feels himself gathered into another, unexpected embrace. One between brother and sister, yes, like before. But now he is a part of it, too; as he feels strong arms on one side and the faintest brush of Harry's hair against his cheek.

"No, no you won't," John is saying. That troubled look crosses his face again as he leans back, the one he's been struggling with for weeks now, and Sherlock watches as everything contorts in memory and nightmare, all at once. He's seen it on John's face from the army, seen it in that night when he came back, but now it is suffused with guilt. He looks up at his sister, and his eyes are haunted, and though she looks confused, Sherlock knows. He understands, and waits.

Sherlock waits for what he knows John needs to say. Because he has kept silent all this time; helped John through his own healing. But now John, the doctor, is self-diagnosing and realizing the root of his problem. And she is sitting in the bed, and she is resting in his heart.

"Harry," he begins, and his voice quavers in a way it hasn't since he returned from Afghanistan. "I... no, you won't lose your family again. But not all of that - most of it, really - wasn't your fault. I was..." he stops, breathes out and tries again. Unconsciously, Sherlock curls a hand around his knee, and he shifts into it, seems to gather strength as he begins speaking once more.

"I said some terrible things to you that night. And I should have - god, Harry, they were awful. I didn't even stop to think about all that you were going through. Too blinded by my own... well, I was selfish. That's the heart of it, really. And I did have a right to be sad, and angry for myself. Yeah, definitely. Because you and I both know some of the things you did were careless. But that's not - that doesn't mean I should have abandoned you. And I did. I swore I'd never, and I did. You needed me," he says, and he looks lost inside his eyes as he breaks her gaze. "And I'm so sorry for not seeing your side of this. I'm sorry for not seeing your losses. I'm - I don't know if you can ever forgive me. I don't know if I would."

Harry's face is impassive. After a time, she says softly, "For a while, I didn't think I would either. You hurt me, Johnny. I was hurting, and you ignored that." Her voice is tinged with a coldness that goes very, very deep, and Sherlock almost shivers from the weight of it in the room. But slowly, her face is transforming, and her tentative hand reaches out to touch her brother's shoulder softly. "But I'm here now. I'm here, John. And we - we both did wrong. So much wrong, so much shit for us."

Unexpectedly, she leans forward, and their eyes lock. Brother and sister, at once unguarded, and the depths of all she has revealed still sit in their gazes. And, it seems, an unspoken understanding begins to dawn in the dark, and in the smiles that slowly spread across their faces.

"But we're both getting better. And things are going to change. And we're going to be okay."

Harry politely ignores the tears of relief on his face as he buries his head in her shoulder, if only because he does the same for hers. Sherlock smiles softly, satisfied at what has unfolded before his eyes, even if some of it does not make sense to him.

But as John reaches back to pull him in, too, he thinks that maybe he is learning, and learning quite a lot.

After that, they sit in silence for a long moment, until Sherlock can sense his feet losing feeling and his back cramping in the way they're huddled, all squished together in tight angles and strong arms.

But it doesn't matter, because even as a multitude of sensations rise up and threaten to overwhelm his throat, and even as he feels the coils of tension developing in the uncomfortable places of his back, he has gained more.

Something in the room, once lost, has returned. And for the first time in a long time, the room, and they inside of it, feel whole and unbroken.

"How did you know she was blonde?" Harry whispers against his cheek.

Sherlock feels the edges of their smiles aligning where they are pressed together. "Hair on your shoulder. I thought it might be best not to mention to your brother."

"'Slow,' huh?" John grumbles, but it is good-natured, and as another fit of giggles overtakes the pair, and Harry pokes him in the side and starts an unintended wrestling match, Sherlock finds even he is unable to suppress a smile.

They spend the day with Harry, lounging around the flat. John catches up with his sister - or rather, they ignore her past and focus on the future. They do, however, talk about everything John has been up to in her absence. She's eager for him to fill in the details on everything she's missed with the baby.

Sherlock watches, mostly. Interjects when John says something too sappy or inane; keeps quiet and simply observes when he notes the look of wonder that has been for ages plastered all across his face, shining from his very pores. Simply observes in the moments when Harry trails off and gets a far-off, sad look in the corners of her eyes, and wonders if she's thinking about all she has lost. It immediately becomes vitally important that she have the chance again, or at least to be involved in every capacity with their own, but Sherlock keeps silent on that, too. Just wordlessly hands her those first ultrasound pictures, and stands before her when at last she gathers her things and moves to leave.

She looks surprised when his bulk presses against her. "Hands," he instructs, and though Sherlock does not usually allow this - he'd even balked at Mrs. Hudson's first grabbing of eager hands - it is he who guides them swiftly and easily to rest over the swell. Her fingers splay wide, her eyes enlarging to follow them, and she spares a second to look up into his face.

"Beautiful," she breathes, and though before Sherlock had never understood the draw or attraction in this; had always thought how distasteful it might feel to have the hands of others all over him, taking, taking, taking, when the word leaves her lips he can only nod in agreement.

A few more seconds, and she is withdrawing, giving her brother a hug and stepping towards the door. They follow, waving goodbyes, John giving reassurances to call her to check back in tomorrow. On an impulse, as the Watson family was inclined to do, she steps back from the open door and pulls Sherlock forward by the scarf around his neck, drawing him down so she can press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispers again, a slight break in the middle of her words, and with a final, knowing smile she ducks her head and is gone, the wooden door closing with a soft click behind her.

John turns to face him, puzzled but clearly full to bursting with happiness. His eyes are shining in a way in which a man's who has just been kidnapped should not be. "What was that for?" he questions simply, a slight shrug in his shoulders as he looks up to look into Sherlock's eyes.

He's busy staring out the thin window at the retreating form of an extraordinary woman, his fingers reaching up to brush stupidly against his cheek. "Everything," he murmurs in reply, before he turns to John and wraps an arm around his waist, and they together make their way back up the stairs.

 

_____

 

"Start at the beginning, and tell me everything," Sherlock requests, as he folds into his arm chair, fingers already steepling before his chin.

John sighs, shaking his head as he settles across from Sherlock. He leans forward, hands between his knees as his shoulders lift in a gentle shrug. "I told you already, I don't remember much of anything. One minute I'm walking out of Tesco's, thinking about which take-out place to stop at on the way home, and then  _bam_. Darkness. And suddenly I'm drifting in and out of consciousness in a hospital."

Sherlock's brows settle stonily over his eyes, deep frown lines defining the sharp angles of his face. "You're saying you honestly don't remember anything? Nothing suspicious, no unexpected events or persons, no -?"

"Sherlock," John cuts in, fixing him with a hard look. "I'd tell you if anything was amiss. But as it is, whatever they gave me was really, really good in erasing all that. Why don't you believe me when I tell you that?"

Sherlock stands up in a flurry of frustration; winces when his legs cramp and cause him to stumble. "I'm fine," he snaps as John moves to help him, gripping the table for support as he moves to the window. He works to breathe; his lungs feel as if they are filling with rage, drowning in its swells. He closes his eyes, breathes. He hears John sit back down slowly; can also hear the question he isn't asking. "I… I can't believe-" he stops, grits his teeth and tries again. "Someone took you from me. They took you, and they drugged you, and we don't know a thing about them. Do you know what it's like; not knowing?" Sherlock gives a breathy laugh, but it has a bitter cadence.

"Yeah, I do," John cuts in. He stands again, but does not move to Sherlock. Just watches him from across the room with solemn eyes. "Not all of us can know everything, Sherlock."

"I know, not even me," Sherlock spits, more viciously than intended. "But you should at least be able to tell what happened to you before you were so easily borne off by some mystical, vanishing group and their paltry magic tricks."

"I'm trying, Sherlock, do you think this is easy for me?" John fires back, his tone rising. "Do you think I'm not trying to remember with everything in me? Do you think I'm not fucking terrified that I look back and all I see is this…darkness? Do you think I don't care that I didn't even realize -" he chokes, cutting off in the end.

He bites his lip, finding it exceedingly difficult to look at John and not tremble with rage, which only intensifies as he notices the shaking in John's hand. "No, I… I know that. But I should also know by now how to protect you. And if that fails, then vengeance should be the next step."  _Because I will make them pay. They do not know the severity of the lines they have crossed, but they will._

John clears his throat. "Sherlock, you're not going to lose me. And you're not some, I don't know, avenging angel, and I'm not some sort of helpless sidekick," he scoffs, holding his arms across his chest.

"It's not even all about losing you." Sherlock feels something fast and hot building just behind his skull, and he blinks rapidly at the sudden sensation. "It's…the thought of you, not existing, at all. Not anymore." His eyelids flutter shut on the thought. "And it's not just for…for me, anymore, either. You have to come home. For it. Him, or her. I will not let anyone take that, that fatherhood, away from our child."

There's a painful silence that hangs heavy between them, but John breaks it - shatters it completely, utterly, totally - with his next words. He finally steps forward into Sherlock's space, brushes up along his side until he is pressed against the growing mound. His other arm tightens around Sherlock's thin shoulders. "I promise I will do my best to never, ever let that happen. And I will try to remember, I will. I am trying, god, I'm trying. But it's terrifying, Sherlock. Not knowing, you're right. It's bloody terrifying. But shouting at each other isn't going to fix it."

"It's not your fault. You know I'm not, ah. Mad at you," Sherlock says awkwardly.  _No, John, never - but I can't see past the thoughts in my head that are all red pictures of you; blood and death and the end, things I never minded until you._  The words begin to jumble in his head; he can't even sort through all of them. They tangle on his tongue, and his mouth remains open but no sound comes out. The silence is full of all those knots and ties, impossibly tangled.

"No," John says, and just like that, at the soft hint of quirked lips and kind eyes, so deep and blue and warm, the strings are unraveling, and Sherlock with them. "No, and I'm not mad at you. It's just the whole situation. We're a little tense, but that's alright." He slides a thumb over where Sherlock's collarbone peeks up around his shirt; small, somehow soothing in its easiness. "These are… bad things, Sherlock. But this is our life, and we just have to bear it the best we can. Like we always have, like we always will. No matter how frightening."

He sags against the smaller man, who shifts at the sudden weight but does not pull away. Sherlock dips his nose into the soft patch of downy, sand-colored hair. "Sometimes it's all so much, so much more inside my head and under my skin," he murmurs to it, feeling the strands tickle at his lips. "and I wonder - John, what are we bringing into this world? A place where people kidnap others. Murder others. A place where our child might lose a father before they've ever known him. These are our realities, and we're imposing them on another being, John."

Without hesitation, John turns Sherlock so they're face to face, Sherlock's protruding stomach stretching between them. He brings Sherlock's hands from his sides, places them across it, then rests his own hands on Sherlock's. "What do you do when you don't know things, Sherlock? On a case, I mean."

"Look for evidence," he answers easily, wondering what, exactly, John is getting at. "If it's relevant."

"Right," John agrees, hands smoothing over his front. "What you don't do is give up." Sherlock feels offended at the very idea, and John notes it in his expression with a slight tilt of his head. "You don't run away when you don't know things. Just like I didn't run away in the army when I was afraid. We're not the running types, unless we're running headfirst into something."

A slow smile has been spreading across Sherlock's face, and it continues to grow as he begins to understand John's meaning.

"And in case you've forgotten," John continues, easily slinging his other hand around Sherlock's waist and resting his fingers against his widening hips, "there is plenty of evidence that this will all be fine, in the end."

"What evidence?"

"Have you not been reading the parenting books? They say everyone freaks out in the beginning, just a bit."

Sherlock scoffs, as they turn together away from the window. "I am not 'everyone,' John. Neither are you."

John stares up at him, expression unreadable, stopping in his tracks for a moment. "It's late; we're exhausted. Come to bed," he says at last, and though his face betrays nothing, the arm around Sherlock's side cinches tighter, and does not promise to let go any time soon.


	12. Chapter 12

_(Monday, February 6th; Week 21)_

"I thought about it, you know," Sherlock says over dinner. They're in a small eatery off Gower street, and it's quiet enough that Sherlock can speak without the fear of losing his nerve if John doesn't hear him the first time. It's an unusual sensation, this. Adrenaline, when there's nothing remotely dangerous about the conversation they're about to have.

John looks up, swallowing a mouthful of dim sum. "Well you should've gone with it, then. It's delicious," he declares, enthusiastically spearing another morsel.

"Not about the food," Sherlock hisses, exasperation etched into the tense line of his shoulders. He settles back in his seat, eyes darting around the room once more before he says again, more quietly, "Names."

"Oh." John lays down his fork; dabs absently at his hands with a napkin. "When was this?"

"All last week," Sherlock admits, hands clenching into fists on his thighs. For many of those days, he'd been preoccupied with learning all he could about the strange circumstances surrounding John's temporary disappearance, but when those frustrations grew too high his mind had turned to another source of distraction.

And this was a very great problem to mull over indeed. Just a name, just letters, but Sherlock knew the importance of it. Knew how certain words could come to mean so much, how a J and an O and an H and an N were nothing when separate but when together could inspire so much more feeling than he'd ever even dreamed of possessing. And so he also knows that this thing that is a part of each of them deserves just as much. And more.

But John is shaking his head. "You know what, no, actually, I've thought about it too, and - maybe we should wait. To see the ultrasound."

Sherlock's face falls. "But that appointment's a week away. And you said yourself they can often be wrong."

"Yeah, well, we'll get a few done then."

"A few?" Sherlock says sharply. "You know you cannot expect me to..." his mouth twitches. "...remain  _seated_  for that long."

"Not all at once," John answers quickly, knowing full well how difficult wrestling a fidgety Sherlock into the chair was for just one appointment. "And that was sort of a joke. But either way, we'll be prepared. And this way, we won't waste time."

"Technically, that makes this whole conversation a waste of time," Sherlock mutters.

John glares, fork halfway to his open mouth. "Fine," he says, setting it down again with a sigh. "You want to talk names? Let's do it then - last names." He smirks. "Holmes-Watson? Watson-Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rise in alarm. "Don't be ridiculous. Holmes will not be part of our child's name."

John's reply comes after an incredulous pause. "And why ever not?"

"You know perfectly well why. Any association with me is bound to end in danger; a danger I'd rather spare our offspring."

"Well, I hate to break it to you," John says, lowering his tone conspiratorially, "But he or she is sort of already associated with you, just about as closely as it's possible to get. You know, genetics, and all."

John can practically see the daggers Sherlock's eyes throw back at him, and backs off a little. "I am serious, though, Sherlock," he says, huffing a laugh. "You're already going to be part of this kid's life, and if you think it's somehow going to escape our lifestyle then you're an idiot."

Sherlock continues to narrow his eyes across the table. "What happened to caring and being protective, then?"

"Sherlock," John sighs a warning. "I'm not saying we're not going to try, but you have to realize that people are going to know the ways to get to you whether or not your name is tacked on at the end of it or not. I'm not exactly unknown now, and those that want resources will always manage to get them. Best to acknowledge that for what it is. And," he says, more quietly, "if it means anything to you, then personally, I'd like the gesture, thanks."

Sherlock grimaces. He doesn't want to go against John's wishes in this, but he also knows he's the more logical of the two. It may not seem like a large amount of difference, but every little bit would help. Any measures that could be taken to protect their child in a world of already sufficient risk should be enacted, and that was that. "I still don't like it," he says, words slow as he puzzles them out.

John cuts him off. "You have time to come to terms with it."

"S-so I don't get a say at all?" he splutters after a moment of indignant silence.

John fixes him with a long look. "Of course you do. When you're willing to see my side at all."

"Your side is overtly sentimental."

John doesn't dignify this with a response. In fact, as he balls up his napkin and signals the waiter, he looks perfectly prim and even gives him a cheery -  _infuriating_  - smile. "Not until you  _really_ see my side,  _dearest_."

Sherlock stares after John as he saunters away from the table, at last maneuvering clumsily out of the seats -  _too cramped, not coming here again in the coming months, no matter what John thinks of the dim sum,_  he thinks, even more crossly than usual - and stalking after him, annoyed at having to be the one doing the keeping up. But he will catch up, he knows, and his eyes focus in on the form of the army doctor beckoning him towards the open doorway.

He always does.

Sometimes it just takes him a little longer than he would have expected.

"Why don't you want to even talk first names anymore?" he grumbles, as they sit in a cab on the way home.

John gives a little bit of a shrug. "I never said I didn't. Just that it might be more prudent to wait. I didn't think you'd want to..." his words stop, and he gives another lift of his shoulders, mouth twisting as his lips purse. "I thought you'd be focused on other things. Cases, and such. And you're right that we can afford to wait."

Sherlock almost laughs. They'd both switched sides in order to please the other. How unexpectedly them.

And suddenly, it hits him.

Not that he says anything, at the moment. No, while he does recognize the validity of John's viewpoint, there's some in his, too. He has worked countless missing person's cases when the persons in question were just children. And he has worked enough to have made a few enemies. Any steps they could take in order to ensure safety should be exercised, sentiment or no.

He already knows how completely he owns his child, if only for the fact that it completely owns him; consumes his every waking thought and even shudders through his dreams in sleep. He doesn't need the demonstration of his name, when he knows how wholly they belong to one another.

To honor it with John's would be enough.

Nonetheless, he abandons the issue - for the present - and turns to John with a troubled look. "I told you then that the work comes first."

"Yes," says John, and his eyes shy to the floor.

Sherlock frowns. "I hope you didn't think I meant I would put the work before my..." he swallows. "Family." Again, the word is strange in how oddly exhilarating it feels as it slides along his tongue. Just words, until they had meaning. "It was prioritizing. A case needed solving. That was more important than a conversation that had time to grow." They're approaching the kerb, and so with a new desperation he latches his fingers around John's arm and locks their gazes.

"In the past, the work always did come first. But that's because there was nothing  _but_  the work. But anything powerful enough to come in and change that deserves as much, if not more, of the devotion I paid to what once was the only important thing. And I - I'm trying," he says haltingly, as they slow to a stop. "Trying," he repeats softly, and John is only nodding and curling his fingers over the hand on his arm.

"And doing very, very well." A quick smile flashes in his direction, and then John is winding his fingers through his hair and tipping him down to press a kiss to his forehead. "I'm really proud to be a dad with you," he whispers against the skin there, and Sherlock, who can feel the quirk of his lips against his skin, smiles right back.

 

_______

 

_(Thursday, February 9th; Week 21 continued)_

It's quite stunning, how quickly things can change.

It's in the instant that Moriarty trains his gun on him, has him pressed against the wall in a terror he has never felt before, that he realizes what an awful idea this - all of it - is. And realizes that in this moment, nothing is going to stop him and the life inside from dying as one when that trigger inevitably clicks.

He'd gone down to Bart's to investigate a lead, found it deserted despite Lestrade's call. It was completely deserted in a way it almost never was, and as he wandered corridors he'd never been down before, and found himself getting lost in dark hallways where smoke curled from smashed lights, and there were only strange red pinpricks of light to guide him like dark and distant stars, he knew something was wrong. And it seemed as if he could hear the faint whispers of people telling him to go back; telling him he couldn't go forward because he was Sherlock,  _for chrissakes, and there was no way you can do this_. Everything, even the floor under his feet that shifted with the gentle undulations of lapping pool water, seemed to tell him to turn around.

But he pushed on through the meandering, darkened halls, knowing that he had to solve the mystery at the end of it.

Finally, a door marked "Doctor" at the end of one last corridor had given way under his hand, and he'd stepped through with a surge of relief - because  _Doctor_ , of  _course_ , it was  _John_ , and he was here, and that meant everything would be  _okay_  -

But as the door had locked of its own volition, it had been Moriarty who stepped from the shadows.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he was saying as Sherlock pressed himself up against the door, and he had John's voice. "But really, is it? They all leave."

"You've killed him?" he hears himself say, and his voice sounds like bullets fired in the cold, chlorine-air.

"Oh, no, goodness me." Foul laughter curls through the space between them. "You did."

Sherlock doesn't want to believe him, wouldn't believe him, but suddenly John is there and nodding in agreement with eyes as hard as diamonds but holding none of their luster. He is dead, even as he opens his own mouth and begins to laugh at him in frozen tones that do not hold even the memory of life. Those hands he knows so well raise to pull back the parka, where blood is beginning to seep through the shirt underneath. The blood spills forth, spreading from a point just to the left of his sternum. Something lurches in Sherlock's chest, and he stumbles forward, but Moriarty holds up a hand.

"No, you've done enough for him. Done him in, actually. Killing everything you touch, just like always. And I must say, I'm impressed, Sherlock. But there's someone you forgot."

The word trembles. "Who?"

Moriarty smiles, and says in an entirely different voice - huskier, darker, a madness lurking just beneath the surface of the controlled tones, "Me."

He pulls the trigger.

Sherlock lurches upwards, a violent noise ripped from his throat as his eyes snap open. It echoes in the air, rings in his ears and disorients him just enough that it takes almost five whole seconds for him to come to the realization that it was just a dream; he was dreaming and Moriarty has not -

"Sh'lock?"

He leaps from the bed, stumbling in the sheets that tangle around his limbs and nearly crashing into the doorframe. He wrenches it open and staggers downstairs blindly, where he stumbles into the kitchen. He works to steady himself with a firm grip on the kitchen table. His knuckles turn white, and his breath is coming hard and fast and uncontrollable, and the rise of panic is still high in his throat and ever-present in his mind. Colors explode behind his eyes, words whir away in his mind, and though he blinks rapidly to will it all away he can't  _think_ , can't see or do anything with all this noise and feeling so unleashed inside his head. Trapped, like something wild and deadly that is doing its best to claw its way out.

Gentle feet pad down the steps behind him. They stop somewhere to his right. "Sherlock?" The voice questions again, and Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut around it.

"John, I'm - I..."

A hand comes to sit lightly on his shoulder, and it holds so much more than his mind could ever say. And in its current state, it is the final straw, and like a dam everything spills over and he finds himself turning into the touch because it is the only solid thing left.

He buries himself in the warm body that presents itself, muffling the other choked noises that try to force themselves out into a shoulder mottled with scarring. He takes comfort in the familiar lines that press against his sweaty forehead, struggling against his bewilderment while his heart pounds raggedly in his chest. "Easy, shh, easy," John is murmuring above him, concerned tones still cloaked in sleep, as another arm comes to fold him closer. He quakes, small tremors speeding along his arms and down his spine, but with those tender words and languid swipes of his arm John works them away, bit by bit.

After many long moments, he takes a steadying breath and straightens. "I'm sorry, I don't - don't know what came over me."

"Don't give me that," John murmurs, but the words are soft, only pressing gently in concern. Because John has suffered the nightmares before; knows what it is to feel a terror that takes hold of you so deep it doesn't even die in the sunlight. He has felt darkness encroaching in the one place it is impossible to avoid. And though he does not know the havoc it wreaks on the mind of a genius, that same, bone-deep fear is one he's seen in the mirror many times before.

And maybe that's why, when Sherlock wants to do nothing more than curtly dismiss him and focus on something else instead - that last client, maybe, looked promising - he feels it as his mouth opens and a small, shamed sound comes out. "It was Moriarty."

John just waits for more, but his eyes don't stop their soft searching of Sherlock's face.

He swallows. "He, he had me and, well, he was going to kill me, because that's what he does."

Now John probes, because Sherlock's face becomes closed, though so much more simmers under the tight lines of his jaw. He knows Sherlock had never reacted with such violence to the thought of his own death. Not until there was so much more at stake, and even then, he had always been willing to face it if it came with the possibility of taking Moriarty along with him. So now... a hand curls against his cheeks, thumbing over the taut skin. "And?"

"And what?" Sherlock snaps. "That was it; just a dream, you should just go back to -"

"What did he say, Sherlock?"

He stares John down, but he does not back off, and the sigh of defeat that rings through the room is still tinged with reluctance and the traces of real, true fear. "He'd told me I'd killed you," he says, the voice is dull and emotionless only because he is trembling with the effort of keeping it so. "He had...he had your voice," he rasps haltingly. "And then you were there, and you were dead and speaking - speaking in your voice and saying the same. Same things. And showing me how."  _Bullet straight through the heart._ His eyes close, and his fists clench where they're still bunched around John. "And then he shot me, too. In my - where our - " Wordlessly, John cinches them tighter together, and when he opens his eyes it is so very clear in his sorrowful face and drawn skin that he knows.

And because John has experience with this, too, he does not press any further. "It's okay now. You're here. We're all here. Safe," he murmurs, and other varied assurances that Sherlock would like to think he doesn't have a need for but accepts anyway.

And at the same time, he knows these things are not okay. They are not safe, not for an instant. And, coldly, that realization curls in the pit of his stomach and seems to freeze the place where he felt so warm before. He lets John lead them back to bed, but he does not sleep again that night.

 

_______

 

_(Monday, February 13th; Week 22)_

"Alright, that's it," John is saying, and Sherlock's eyebrows lift. He does not comment. Waits instead for John to make evident what has so clearly upset him. True to form, he folds the newspaper and puts his chin in his hand, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. "Something is off, and you're going to tell me what it is."

The eyebrows tug higher. "Oh? What makes you so positive 'something' is off, doctor? And if it is, would you really force me to share?" The tone that results is far more defensive than he would have liked, but it cuts all the same. The wounded look flashes in John's eyes before it's pushed aside by a sort of exasperated understanding.

"That right there is what makes me so positive, Sherlock. You've been all..." he gestures with a lack for words, which only causes Sherlock to give a tiny smirk and make John even more frustrated, "...angsty, for days."

Now the smirk deepens into a scowl, but John pushes on before he can make some arbitrary comment. "Sherlock, don't brush this off," he pleads, switching tactics and adopting a look of concern. "If you're irritated by something or just - just don't like something, then you should let me know. I want to help."

And now he feels almost... guilty. Brilliant. He abruptly rises from where he'd been conducting a moody survey of the London passersby out the window, choosing instead to stalk to the kitchen and throw open the cupboards. He's not hungry, not really. Could go for a cup of tea. But it's something to do. If John thinks he's playing normal, then he'll leave him alone.

John, however, deserves more credit than Sherlock often gives, for he just dogs him into it and stands with crossed arms in the doorway. "Looking for something?"

"A way out," Sherlock mutters.

The frown lines on John's forehead deepen. "What?"

The question leaves his mouth just as Sherlock accidentally sends the tea box hurtling to the floor. "Dammit," he says, a rare moment in which he can't withhold such a plebeian curse, and in that moment the look on John's face transfers to one of real worry.

"Sherlock, don't - you'll hurt yourself, stop," he says, hurrying over to gather the box and fallen leaves for himself, as Sherlock grimaces with the effort of attempting to crouch down and do it himself.

"I'm  _fine_ ," Sherlock bites out, but stays in place while John cleans up his mess in tense, hard silence.

John waits until the floor is clean again before sinking back onto his haunches and staring up at Sherlock's petulant face. "No, you're not. And if all of this," he says, gesturing between them and the third, not-quite-absent-not-quite-present party in the midst of their conversation, "is going to work, then you have to be willing to open up to me, Sherlock. Do you - don't you trust me?"

"It's preposterous for you to think otherwise," he says on a low breath.

"Then why won't you let me help you?"

"Because I don't  _need_  help."

"Then what is this, Sherlock?" John nearly shouts, the outburst ringing harshly in the too-small room. "Why don't you sleep at night? Why do you stare out windows and, and brood? Why are you looking at me like - like I'm -"

"Like what?" Sherlock snaps after a second of agonized silence.

"Like you're going to lose me the second you look away?" There's something reminiscent of panic in John's eyes, now, and with that one last look Sherlock knows he cannot hold out for an easy end to this conversation. "Was it the nightmare?" John is asking more gently, and Sherlock is already shaking his head.

"No. Yes," he says, clipped on the first and confused and sighed on the second. He rocks back on his heels, and, almost unconsciously at this point, his fingers rest on the swell of flesh jutting before him. "John," he starts again, and his fingers flutter anxiously. In response, John rises and takes them into his own.

"Shit, you're cold," he says, a quiet laugh ghosting past his lips, and he rubs his frozen hands in small, soothing circles. Sherlock watches the repeated motion until his breath quiets, and he summons enough thought to know what he must say.

"It's just that, though," he muses, and John is attentive and silent. "So much I have to do, to be. I've let you inside my body, now you're asking to be in my mind as well? But, really - you're already there, John. You're there all the time," he sighs at last, and the sound is tired. John's hands squeeze down more tightly around his own.

"You've never been asked to be anything you're not in this relationship," he says firmly, but Sherlock is frowning down at him.

"Getting into a relationship is not something I would have ever done as it is." And now he laughs at himself, but it is bitter. There is no joy in that broken cadence. He pulls a hand away to support himself against the countertop, and his slouch has lost its confident pose. "And by its definition, relationships require me to be so much more than I have ever been - loving. Honest. Warm. Kind. Affectionate." Each word is punctuated by the click of one absent finger against the countertop.

"But people change, Sherlock," John reasons, turning him back to face him, frank eyes meeting the guarded depths of Sherlock's. "The fact that you're doing this with me at all is all the evidence I need. I've seen you be warm. You've been honest with me. And - and you love me," he says, more softly, and Sherlock's eyes flicker down to his lips as they form the word. "You can't lie to me on this one. There are some things I just know."

"I know it, too. But it's still not a natural thing. None of this, any of it, comes naturally, don't you see? I have worked so hard to convince myself," he darts off, abruptly speaking to himself more than to John. "So hard, and for nothing."

"Sherlock," John is warning him, and Sherlock is not listening.

"We thought we could do this. I, with my personality as it is - I've been a fool, John, something I've never been before. I should have listened to what they said."

"What have they said? Who are they?" His voice is almost desperate now, his fingers on Sherlock's wrists clenching so tightly he's starting to lose feeling in his hands. But Sherlock doesn't care. Can't really bring himself to care about much at all, really. All of a sudden, this new realization sits on his chest like a dead weight, and he is pinned under the utter  _certainty_  of it.

"Everyone. I'm not - I'm not fatherhood material. I'm - " he is trembling now, and the enormous effort it takes to force the words past his lips almost isn't worth it. "I'm not a loving or caring person. I don't do affection like everyone else does. Just who I am, what I have become, is not going to be enough to... to nurture. And then there's my lifestyle. God, John, how could I have ever thought bringing a child into our lives would be a realistic decision? We've made precautions yes, but we are always hunted. We are always going to have enemies, and one day you or I might not be around to stop them. Who knows who might be hurt collaterally? They've taken Mrs. Hudson before; they wouldn't stop at our child. No. It'd be the best way to us. To hurt us. From the moment it was conceived this child has been in the line of fire, and that will never stop. Never, not - not ever," he says, and the manic pace of his words slows as abruptly as if it had run itself into a wall. He's afraid to raise his eyes to John, but he does anyway.

He is at a loss. The man in front of him looks completely helpless, and it was not what he had expected, and is almost enough to bring him to his knees. But, even as he watches, John's cold, sad stare transforms itself. Steely resolves floods into his expression as his jaw clenches and his chin tilts upwards imperiously, as if he is visibly forcing back the creeping uncertainty that moments before had stolen over him so completely.

"So, so what then? You want to give up now? Fine. I'm sure you know at least fifty poisons that could -"

"John," Sherlock gasps, aghast, terror like he has never seen before flooding his face as his arms wrap around his middle. "I can't -"

"And see!" John shouts, stepping forwards into his space, laying his hands alongside Sherlock's spindly fingers. "That's it! You are not the sociopath you say you are, Sherlock. Look at you, look at all you've done. Look at the facts. You don't smoke anymore. You sleep, you eat, you care. I've seen you smile down at something that can't even see it yet. And I agreed to having a kid with you. And I live with you, and I sometimes kiss you, and you kiss me back. And I've made love to you, Sherlock Holmes. And I have seen you come apart under it. Under me," he chokes, tilting their foreheads together and ghosting a warm sigh across his face. "And in hearing this, do you know why that is?"

Stepping almost impossibly closer, tilting his head to brush his nose along Sherlock's, he skates his mouth over his skin to whisper in his ear, "Because you love me, and you love it so much already, and it scares you because you don't understand it. You're already afraid of losing it. Don't discredit me because you're uncertain. I'm - I'm a pretty good judge of character." The rasp of lips against his ear tells him that John is smiling, but when he pulls back, there's still a trace of quiet fear in those eyes. "And I think you need to stop thinking about what the world thinks and focus on what you want." He hesitates, and adds, "Not even on me. It's about you, Sherlock. Your love is all up here in your head, so tell me, what does your brain say?"  _What do you know in that heart that is bigger than you'll ever guess?_

 

_____

 

He slips under the covers long after John has gone to bed, but the eyes that turn to him are wide and awake as Sherlock curls up along his side. For a long moment, he breathes in John's scent, feels an arm come to clasp his waist.

John hums into his skin, and Sherlock's breath fans out between them before he speaks. "Could be dangerous."

"You said dangerous, and here I am," John replies softly.

Sherlock's laugh tumbles down from above him. "That's when I realized... this only works because of our life style. We're just danger-addicted enough to want the risk. But at the same time... you're right. I - I have changed," he says, almost like a question. "Changed enough to love you. There are still things I'm not - won't be - good at, but if I've changed, then I still can. And I do love it, too. I was just... panicking. There's still so much that could go wrong. And -"

"Sherlock, you're rambling," John cuts in with a fond sigh. He silences the protest with a soft, gentle peck. "I know," is all he says. But  _I know, I feel the same way; I am terrified by this love - but we'll use it, to get through this like we always have_ , is what Sherlock hears, in the way John sidles closer and holds them, silent and still, long into the night.

 

_______

 

_(Tuesday, February 14th; Week 22)_

Not for the first time, Sherlock finds himself seated in a doctor's long, flat chair as cool gel is spread liberally over his skin.

Unlike the last time, they are quiet and tense as the nurse goes about her preparations, but the hand John has curled against his face, one finger occasionally stroking a reassuring line down the side of it, is warm, and that is what matters. They share a brief smile - and in it are many unspoken promises, and the many, many things they have never needed to say aloud but will always somehow know - before turning to the grainy image that fizzles and clicks as she holds the device against his stomach. A few more seconds of nonsensical patters, swirling in storms and shades of grey, and then -

A picture flashes across the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, innumerable thanks to everyone for being so incredible, unbelievably supportive, in reading and commenting and bookmarking and lordy, all of it. I really cannot begin to thank you enough, and as such, it pains me to say I might be delaying you with the last few chapters. This officially marks the last of those I have pre-written, so although I have everything planned out meticulously for the end, nothing is actually written in stone (er, hard drive). As such, whether or not I am able to update next week depends on a variety of factors, some of which I have no control over. I can assure you, however, that I will be doing my best to churn out the end of this in as quality a manner and as soon as possible. I have a long weekend coming up, so take heart in hoping that vacation will be a fruitful one! Again, my apologies, and thanks for your understanding. You all are the best!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god. Let me just get down on my knees and grovel for your forgiveness after having kept you waiting so long. Please see the end of the chapter for more notes on the future of updates for this fic. And once more, thank you for your patience.

_(Tuesday, February 14th; Week 22 continued)_

They're quiet on the cab ride home, contemplative and still, the only sound the occasional roll of John's fingers tapping along the empty space between them. Sherlock's eyes flicker down once, twice, before he sighs and grasps those strong fingers with his own. John looks down to where they are aligned, then looks up to catch Sherlock's watchful gaze. He takes a deep breath, and they speak as one -

"Are you okay with -"

"I assume -"

They stop. Silence rules as they look down. Meet each other's eyes again before slipping into cracked giggles, hysteria and euphoria all in one as they lean into one another subconsciously and let their laughter dissipate the tension in the air.

John is the first to quiet, though he still chuckles breathlessly when he finally repeats himself. "I was going to ask, is all, I'm just wondering, given some of the things you've, um, said about... well, just - are you okay with this? With -"

"Regardless of whether or not I'm 'okay' with it," Sherlock quotes, throwing a disparaging glance his way, "we can't argue now. But I am. Of course. Yes," he breathes, speaking more to himself and the life inside him as he allows a hand to slide over the crest, and wonders in passing if tiny fingers could be reaching back. "Are you?" he remembers to ask, peering up from under the hair that obscures his bowed head.

John's smile, full and wide and uninhibited, could eclipse the sun in all the warmth it holds as he squeezes the hand still trapped in his own. "Yeah. God, yeah." Then he's laughing again, in disbelief and wonder, and his other arm reaches across to rest over Sherlock's protruding abdomen. After a second's thought, he leans down and presses his lips against it. Sherlock's breath hitches with the raw intimacy of it, as he feels them all in one, body and soul, in this very moment.

It strikes him then, how far they've come. He remembers that first night, John with the children at the crime scene, when he'd first felt that wanton stir bubbling up inside him and threatening to drown them all with the mighty, crushing power of his  _want_. How he'd sat, for ages, in the dark of their flat, gazing out the window but not seeing, as his mind wandered the streets of London without him and felt, as if branded upon the inside of his eyelids, the gaze of every child - all of them with hazel eyes ( _sometimes blue, mostly blue, but with that center of brown and yellow and the gold of the sun and just green at the edges and more..._ ) and tangles of dark hair; grey eyes with tawny locks falling down across their smooth, unwrinkled foreheads.

They and all their infinite, searching gazes that peered inside and peeled back each layer of muscle surrounding his protected heart to reveal what lay beneath.

And how then, when he'd finally come back to himself and opened his eyes to see John at the breakfast table, hair unruly and eyes sleepy but with the grin that his world might as well revolve around sitting on his face, it had turned from passing fancy and desire to need, pure and unadulterated.

A need to see that John would live forever, and that in all that time, his smiles wouldn't stop. And not just his smiles - his huffs and sighs and shouts alike; the way he licked his lips when he was nervous and the scrunched faces he made when he found the toes in the kettle and the dogged determination and life that permeated every inch of the space around him, the glow that seemed to envelop the atmosphere and whose only source was the untapped darkness and light alike in so unassuming, so unexpected, a man.

And maybe, it was even selfish, at first, because he wanted himself to be part of it until the very end. To lay claim and to be claimed in return, in ways he'd never wanted before, and in ways that would last even after they were dead and gone.

But John, in so very characteristic a fashion, had given his reassurances. And so many things could have stepped in the way between the then and now. So many things had tried. But every moment leading to this one had locked into place and given them this one perfect joy. So many impossible things that were only improbable and really, as he'd once said, weren't even that. He doesn't know if back then he'd be so quick to call something so explainable a miracle, but it's almost too easy to let the word slip from his tongue on an exhale as John kisses the skin that is the only barrier between what they, together, have made.

The sound of a throat being cleared causes them both to straighten, and they meet the cabbie's eyes in the mirror.

"We're at your stop," he says, a sight embarrassed, clearly looking as if he feels like he's intruding.

John, predictably, gives him a kind smile, and it's clear the relief the other man feels as he's handed a generous amount and a small, "Thank you." But apparently, his shyness evaporated when relief took its place, and he twists around in his seat and gestures between the two of them.

"You're them detectives, right? I read your blog," he says in delight. Brows furrow over kind brown eyes. "Din't mention you was having a kid, though. You should update more! Fans'd love to hear 'bout this."

John looks a bit taken aback, and shares a brief look with Sherlock. He smirks in response, then reaches around John for the door handle.

"Oh, I'm sure he will soon. No doubt he'll call it 'A Study in Pink' or something along those well-versed lines." He opens the door, realizes John is still firmly blocking his way out. Ignores the glare being sent his way and pushes gently against him. Pushes more insistently. John continues to glare back.

"Harry would kill you for enforcing gender roles. She loved blue and orange as a kid," John reminds him after the fourth poke. Sherlock, who has often made known his utter disinterest in the affairs of either women or men, curls his lips and slouches against the seat.

"Blue and orange, however, would not be good nursery colors."

"Complementary, though, or summat, yeah?" the cabbie chimes in as they finally step from the car, John having given up in this regard. Sherlock turns with his own glare, but this time John just smiles as he helps him from the car.

"Right then, how about, 'It's a Girl.' Nice and easy."

"As ever, John, your penchant for the obvious is utterly astounding."

John shakes his head, pursing his lips to hide a grin as Sherlock saunters ahead of him toward the door of their flat. "Thank you, I do try."

 

\---

 

"Karla."

Sherlock huffs his disdain, brandishing the photograph. "Does she  _look_  like a Karla to you?"

John blinks a bit, leans forward on his knees. "To be honest, she doesn't look like much of anything yet," he admits.

Another noise of exasperation escapes his throat, and Sherlock whips the blurry image back around to peruse it with a critical eye. "No, she -"

"Sherlock," John jumps in quickly, setting down a steaming mug of tea before him as he sinks into a crouch. "It's not like naming a - a cat, or something. You pick a name you like and then they do the growing into it. They become the name."

Sherlock continues to squint at the fuzzy pixels. "That makes... no sense," he murmurs, a finger reaching out to stroke over the black edges. "I've never had a cat."

John sighs, coming to sit on his knees in front of Sherlock as he gently plucks the photograph from his fingertips and brings it up to eye-level. He stares for a moment, thumb brushing over where her head - their  _baby's_  head, their  _baby girl's_  head - is labelled in crisp white ink. A soft smile tugs at his mouth, and with a brief gust of laughter he turns the picture back around, so Sherlock can fix his eyes on it again.

He drinks it in almost hungrily, as if it's something he'll never tire of seeing. Wetting his lips, his gaze returns to John. Those two most important things, right here before him. All with even more little things to puzzle out and discover; far more interesting than anyone else in the world. And here they are at his fingertips. Literally, he thinks, as his hand reaches out to cup John's cheek. John leans into it with a contented hum, pressing his lips into his palm. Warm air ghosts across the skin, prompting a quiver from Sherlock and a reactionary chuckle from John. Again, their eyes meet.

It strikes Sherlock, then, how much they say in these unspoken conversations. A quirk of lips here, a solemn nod there, and all is well. It makes Sherlock want to kiss him, and since John's quite adept at getting the unspoken as well, John leans up and presses his lips to the corner of that Cupid's-bow mouth, just brushing at his edges before Sherlock turns and meets him head-on with a tender sigh.

John, still relaxing into the warm touch against the nape of his neck, laughs again. "Whatever her name is, if she's got any of me in her," he murmurs, voice low, "she's gonna be absolutely mad about you."

"Jean." Sherlock says suddenly. A tribute, he once said. Now, an illustration for the both of them.

John stares. "Isn't that, er, sort of my -"

"Yes. Not sort of. It is. French," he adds, in case John didn't know.

Clearly, though, he understands, and he seems to pause. Sherlock can practically see the thought as it rolls slowly across his mind. And, as he enjoys watching his process almost as much as John seems to love watching his, he settles back against the chair and clasps his hands under his chin prayerfully to watch in silence. A smile flickers against John's face before he's shaking it away, short jerks of his head. "Well, in that case we  _could_  just go with John Jr..."

Sherlock frowns. "Would you like that?"

"No, Sherlock, no," he replies hastily. "That...was a joke. I just mean, it's sort of like giving her my name. And it doesn't feel - it's not right if she doesn't have part of yours, too. She's going to be her own person as it is, so I -"

"A middle name, then."

John looks flustered, flushed and a little pleased but also troubled and uncertain. Sherlock abruptly wants this more than ever, so as John begin to protest he just says, very quietly, "Please."

John falls back onto his haunches. "But why?"

"Why not?"

"Sherlock," John prods, scooting forwards to rest his head on Sherlock's knees and looking up with a small smile. His eyes turn wide and innocent, and Sherlock sighs in defeat, but the twin smirk on his own face is all the evidence John needs.

"Because of you," Sherlock says simply, and he cards an absent hand through John's hair. He complains about it greying every now and then, but as the strands slip through his fingers he can see the youth in them when the sun slants across his forehead just so, wheat gold and thin but full of the life of summer. And maybe he feels that life just a touch more acutely, now.

"You... are... the reason any of this has happened," Sherlock begins, taking the time to puzzle out the words for what they are. "And so far, it's as if it has all been me. Planning, carrying - you said yourself that for once I was doing all the hard work." John laughs a bit at this, settling more comfortably against his lap, eyes never once leaving his face. Sherlock tugs his fingers across his scalp a little more roughly, grumbling, but it only makes John laugh harder and Sherlock slips into lazy giggles along with him.

"It has, though," he says, sobering. "And I haven't forgotten your desire to be part of this. And I... I need a way to show you that you are. Important. My two most important things -"

"Three. Three, now."

Sherlock's eyes dart upward from where they've been searching far corners of the room or absent galaxies, but he does not comment. Instead, he rises, snatching John's laptop from the coffee table and waiting impatiently as it loads.

"I've been doing a bit of research as well. Apparently, in historical context the name meant 'God is gracious'. And though we're both not religious, the first - one of the first times I appreciated you is when you told me that your last words would be -"

"'Please, God, let me live.'" John smiles tightly, the lines around his mouth going tense for a bit, and Sherlock's face softens. Of course he remembers.

"Yes. And in that moment, I was - your reply, it surprised me. And I knew there was more to you than met the eye, and in that moment, I was thankful, too. Thankful to whatever god you had prayed to, in that it had let you live and brought you home to me."

"Sherlock," John says, and it's caught between a breath and a hum, and it almost shatters in the air with all one sound cannot contain.

Sherlock swallows, presses on. "And over time, I've become - more and more thankful. Something out there, whether or not it's a deity or fate or the silly, numerous theories of all the equally silly and numerous people on this earth," he continues, nose wrinkling just the faintest in a way that makes John struggle to hide his grin, "or stupid, blind, lucky, gracious chance - I have been...blessed." The world almost sounds like a revelation on Sherlock's tongue, and he tries it again. "Blessed."

For years, Sherlock had been his own deity. His own figure, high up in the cosmos where no mortal could ever hope to reach. And he had performed miracles and had others to sing his praises, and felt worthy of it. But then this man, so very, very human, had brought him back to earth, and he'd discovered he liked it better there after all. And there, his humility had encroached and, in these small and simple blessings, showed him what good fortune he had; what worthiness he did not feel despite all his remarkable deeds - but somehow had been given to him in the end, out of no merit other than the fact that he was loved for who he was and that was that.

"And now here we are, with... these unimaginable things. I could not have predicted this," he says honestly. "And neither would I have been able to predict how much both you and she mean to me. And so it fits," he says, now with finality. "It fits, to tie my two most important things together."

"Oh, Christ," John interrupts, and Sherlock narrows his eyes at him in confusion before they widen upon realizing John's are tinged red at the edges. "I thought you meant me and the work. Before."

"Before  _this_ ," Sherlock reasons, clasping his hands under his chin and sending a quirk of his lips in John's direction, "that would have been true."

John stands, marches over to him and pulls him in for a bruising kiss, hand strong around the nape of his neck and not releasing until Sherlock has to shift uncomfortably and bring up gentle, but firm, hands that push him away. Still, John holds him in place, locking their gazes and darting from one eye to another.

"Yes?" he hums in response to the intense scrutiny, voice low.

"Just." John stops, steps back a second and trails his knuckles over the slant of his cheekbones. "Just trying to make sure all of this is actually happening."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, pulling back fully and settling against the back of his chair, again propping the computer up on his knees. "And here I thought we were past that stage."

"It never ends," John grins, and then shifts to stand behind him. He peers down at the screen. "What're you doing?"

"Attempting to match first names with Jean," Sherlock says, clacking away and narrowing his eyes at the results that appear in front of him.

"I haven't even said yes yet."

Sherlock grins, quietly triumphant as John's hand again settles around the back of his neck, fingers rasping softly at the edge of his collar, and it feels like a promise against his skin - of more, later. Of more of everything in all the later years to come. "Yes, you have."

"In that case, then, have you thought any more on what I said about last names?" John prods quietly.

Sherlock's fingers stop their clacking on the keyboard. Slowly, he turns in his chair, eyes rising to John's. "I... I need more time. Just to -"

"Yeah, sure. It's fine," he interrupts, and brushes his lips over the skin behind his ear one last time before heading off into the kitchen. "I get it." Sherlock stares after him, troubled expression sitting uneasily on his face, as the minutes tick by. There was no malice in John's voice. Maybe he truly does understand what a huge decision it is; to allow danger so freely into their child's life in so obvious a way is almost unimaginable, but he knows now that John's side has its own virtues. It's just... something that requires more thought. And given John's free acceptance of her middle name, it's going to need even more. Because he struck the middle road, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to join him there, but his reservations keep him from marching without hesitation down that path.

It's a long while before he returns to the computer at his lap.

 

___

 

"Sherlock?" a certain landlady's voice calls, and the man in question is roused jarringly from his deep contemplation. He offers only a raised eyebrow as its owner appears in the meet between the kitchen and living room. When she does not continue, he sighs as if it's an enormous effort (which it is; he'd been thinking very hard and at least John knew he didn't like to be disturbed) and looks up. Two slips of paper flutter in Mrs. Hudson's hand as she waves them back and forth once.

Oh. Tickets. "Yes, the exhibition closes today," Sherlock guesses, turning back to the screen.

"I found them in that pile of things on the shelf," she begins, crossing her arms and gesturing at the - now very clean - mantle. "It's a wonder you can ever find anything in here, Sherlock, I'm surprised you pay your bills on time." She gives a small titter before continuing on. "Anyway, I was just doing a bit of dusting since you've all been so busy with the baby, and I realized you hadn't used them yet! And this is just the thing for you, love."

Sherlock's about to protest when John appears next to her, biscuit in hand. "What's this?" he asks around a mouthful of crumbs, and Mrs. Hudson relays her story to John while Sherlock zeroes back in on the computer, tuning them out, only emerging when John's voice, bright and more excited than he'd expected, enters his consciousness. "That could actually be quite a bit of fun, yeah, Sherlock? I know we'd talked about it before; can't believe we haven't gotten around to it."

The tickets, now in John's hand, give a last, feeble wave. Sherlock scowls at them.

"But I could be doing work here."

"But you could be having fun there."

"Work is fun."

"No, it's not. And you're going to drive yourself mad with this naming thing. We have time, Sherlock."

"And it's Valentine's Day," Mrs. Hudson points out helpfully, nodding in delight and sending a wink in John's direction. Still not immune to her insinuations, barring the fact that they'd merged into truth a long time ago, a red flush creeps across John's face. He turns back to Sherlock, who's still scowling.

"Material holiday. Dull," he sniffs, as if that dismisses the matter entirely.

"Sherlock, I think you've forgotten that this is a crime exhibit. Crime is not dull."

As if the world has suddenly tipped on its axis, Sherlock's face almost immediately morphs into an unexpected vulnerability. "But is that what you want to do?"

John laughs. "How long have you known me? Come off it, Sherlock, you know I'd follow you anywhere. Furthermore, you know I enjoy my fair share of crime scenes and detective stories."

"Your blog doesn't count as detective stories," Sherlock mutters, in truth feeling a little sheepish for still doubting. There was a difference between actual crime and crime museums. John, in his patent bed-telly-and-pub-loving ways, might not enjoy the latter. But as Sherlock surveys him, he sees the telltale signs of a true desire, and a thrill that was only just beginning. In truth, Sherlock is feeling it, too. And, in considering that it was the last night...

He stands, maneuvering with difficulty out of the seat, but straightening fully and letting a grin touch his lips. "The criminal classes of our time seem to be on holiday. I'm not opposed to letting those of the past substitute."

John's grin widens in response, and Mrs. Hudson lets her fond look rest on each of them.

"You dears have fun. My, the things I used to get up to on -"

"Yes, thank you," John interrupts, but his smile is still warm as he abruptly pulls her into an embrace. "Thank you very much." He kisses her cheek, and it's her turn to blush as she laughs her praises and bustles back to her own flat.

"She's a queen," John says with a contented sigh, turning back to him, and Sherlock sees the exaggeration for what it is and nods. For a moment, they stare after her in contemplative silence, then John turns abruptly to Sherlock, one eyebrow quirked.

"Commercial holiday. Romantic one. Didn't think you'd enjoy celebrating it like this."

Sherlok mirrors his quizzical expression. "The day doesn't matter." Like their Christmas gift, their affections are a year-round thing. He doesn't need a specific day to show John how much he is appreciated.

Besides, it's not the day he was even thinking of. More the crimes that awaited them, even if they'd happened a long, long time ago. Mere coincidence that it happens to be the day chosen by the masses for displays of love. But if John was looking for a display of affection, then all he needed was to look at the ultrasound currently pinned to the board by the calendar and all its little red Xs. It was the most profound and visible evidence of all those things they shared, right down to the very innermost pieces of themselves.

But John knows this,  _blessed, wonderful, brilliant John_ , and so he's only smiling and nodding. "Yeah. You're right, love. C'mon, let's go."

 

___

 

The museum is fascinating. Certainly, most of the cases have been solved or the evidence would not have been permitted to be on display, but he delights in the way he's able to work out the details from these few facts alone - delighted more so in the way John points out an artifact and asks him to tell him what it means. There's a twinkle in his eyes and a smile at the edge of his lips as he grabs Sherlock's hand and pulls him toward a blood-stained apron and asks him about it; as he listens to all the deductions he pulls from it. And something about it makes Sherlock want to work faster, want to prove it all, as if he's an adolescent with some desire to impress the boy he fancies. It's an odd feeling, but as they whir from exhibit to exhibit, Sherlock feels it bubbling inside him and it's revealed to be a pleasant one. And soon that mirth bubbles up into laughter, and they're leaning against one another and giggling like schoolboys in front of a gruesome display of death masks. It earns them odd looks from all those who weren't already skeptical of the pregnant man by the rows of death instruments, but they're all ignored - Sherlock has much more important things to focus on.

They spend ages in the Ripper Room - Sherlock had usually dismissed it as dull, considering the popularity of the cases in general, but they've recently released several letters from the vaults and he pores over them with interest. He wonders one day if the successful conclusion might be reached, and begins to muse his thoughts aloud to John, who quickly shuffles him toward another room. "Oh, no, we are not getting you tied up in this one."

They breeze through the Modern Crime exhibit before Sherlock has time to gloat over the fact that his name is in one of the mentions on the accomplishments of the New Scotland Yard. Or scoff at the many places his name isn't mentioned where he's had a direct hand. At least, John makes sure they do. Sherlock finds it boring anyway, but is amused nonetheless.

John tries his hand at deduction in a room of murder weapons, where sliding back a panel reveals its purpose and the crime it was part of. He fails miserably, but Sherlock finds it endearing all the same, and is absolutely brimming with glee when he gets each one. John glowers and tugs him out again. It's beginning to be something of a habit, but for once, he's content just to follow.

He's thoroughly enjoying himself, he finds, and the minutes tick by in their pleasurable companionship. It's how they find themselves in a room of some lesser known crimes of the last few centuries, with Sherlock's heart quickening in his chest at the thought of such new knowledge. A man, bespectacled and with the unkempt hair of a professor and the air of someone who has spent much of his life breathing the dust of old books, is speaking to a group of students in the corner. He listens in idly as he and John make their way around the various view ports.

"Sir, but what about the whole Frances controversy?" A student sings out from the back of the group.

The man nods thoughtfully. "Ah, yes, one of the biggest question regarding the Kray brothers - did Ronnie really murder Reggie's own wife? What was the motivation behind it? Jealousy?" He gives a shrug. Sherlock sidles an inch closer, listening intently while keeping his eyes trained on John, who's gesturing at some knife or other. That can wait - In Uni the Kray twins had been a much more recent phenomena (he'd even written a somewhat scathing paper on the methods used in the investigation), but he hadn't heard this before. It was always postulated that it'd been suicide. His eyebrows furrow in concentration, smooth over when John sends a questioning look in his direction. Furrow again when John turns his back.

There was something about this... something that was important... During a case, in those moments before all the evidence clicks together, this is the feeling. All the pieces of information whirling around in his brain, and he knows they are connected and he knows that something is happening that will do the connecting, but the lines just aren't drawing. Not quite yet...

_Frances. Wife of Reggie. Drugs. Reggie's brother. Relevant. How - ?_

"But she died of an overdose," says another student, sounding skeptical. "According to records. And it's only recently that they've drafted up this daft theory." A group of her friends chuckle and nod their agreement, but their teacher is shaking his head.

"It's not that hard to force someone to take drugs," reminds the professor. "Remember that Holmes case a while back?" The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches.

"The serial suicides that ended up being cabbie murders, yeah!" a voice calls out. An excited murmur skitters through the crowd.

The professor takes a moment to calm them down, wiping his glasses on a handkerchief before he goes on. "And more importantly, crime is always evolving, even the solved cases." Sherlock would beg to differ on that last point, at least in  _his_  cases, but the man continues. "Besides, it's a fascinating idea, wouldn't you say? Imagine it - Ronnie takes his brother's wife, perhaps to spare him from the unhappy circumstances surrounding the poor marriage. Drugs her, to make it appear like an overdose and draw suspicion away from himself. Dies before anyone even figures out it could have been him."

A shudder jolts through Sherlock's body, the first strike of realization rippling down his spine like cold fingers.

_Ronnie intervenes. Takes Frances from Reggie. Drugs her. Kills -_

Gray hair moves in a wave as the man shakes his head and gives a shrug of his bony shoulders. "In the end, it's just one more part of the crime. Now, any other questions I can take on the Kray twins before we move on? We're on a schedule here, folks, so make it quick... ah, yes, Jenna."

But Sherlock isn't listening, because suddenly that feeling of before - that a missing something had struggled through the hoops of his mind and finally clicked into place - makes  _sense_.

The evening sours; all the mirth and joy of the time they've been having bursts like tiny golden bubbles, and it is showering down around him and leaving him cold. So, so very cold, and so deep that he thinks he can feel the ache of it in his bones. But this is not the coldness of despair, or that stunning realization of before. This is rage, at once so burning and freezing to the touch it leaves blistering frostbite in its wake. A cold blue flame in his eyes that John flinches from when Sherlock whirls to face him.

"Um, Sherlock...?" he begins, but he's left speaking to the coat that billows behind the detective as he flies from the room, fast as his berth allows.

John heaves a grunt and hurries to catch up, jogging behind his long strides. "Christ, Sherlock, what's gotten into you?" There's no reply, a faintly murderous air crackling with all the electricity of thunder around him, pulling down over his eyebrows and casting his face in shadow. John's only ever seen this look twice before - once, when Mrs. Hudson was threatened, and in the moments after his dream when it had been him in the line of fire. The blood slowly drains from his face, and he's pretty sure it's not in reaction to the chilly night as they step outside the glass doors of the museum and Sherlock fairly thrusts his arm out to hail a cab.

John grasps his other hand and whirls the man attached to it to face him. He locks eyes with him, still shivering when he is caught in the sight of that icy glare. "What happened?" he demands, tone brooking no argument or evasion. Normally, Sherlock is near powerless against it, but this time his lips flatten into a thin line, and he straightens, imposing and resolute.

Nonetheless, John imagines that his eyes soften the tiniest fraction as he steps to the taxi that pulls up to the kerb. "I realized something."

"But what?" John cries in agitation, moving to follow, but Sherlock holds up a hand.

"I need to go see someone. Take the next one and go home."

At this point, John is fuming - not necessarily at Sherlock, but at the sudden inability to understand what is going on, or do anything of use in this situation. You'd think he'd be used to it by now, but it still hurts as Sherlock slides inside and locks the door behind him.

John purses his lips, then taps on the glass. Sherlock considers for a second, realizes John deserves something, and rolls his window down.

Shivering in the cold, John gapes for a moment, floundering for words, and then decides on, "And just who are you going to see?"

Sherlock leans back against the leather seat; sets his dark gaze on the road before them. The overhead light goes out and throws him into darkness as he says quietly, with all the dangerous intent of many of the men he's thrown behind bars, "My brother."

_Brother. Drugged. Lover._

John watches in confusion as the cab rolls away, turning a corner before being lost to the darkness.

 

___

 

Sherlock doesn't waste words as he pushes the secretary aside and swings through the huge double doors to Mycroft's office. His brother barely has time to utter a noise of surprise as he's thrown against the bookshelf, Sherlock's trembling hands fisted in a death grip on his collar. The shelves shake, but no books spill down over their heads, and Mycroft allows himself to relax the tiniest bit. But then he meets the eyes that are so similar to his own and shrinks back again, because Mycroft Holmes is an intelligent man, and more than that, he is smart enough to know his brother as almost no one else has known him before.

It is for this reason that Mycroft knows almost instantly what the threats in every line of his face and the shaking of his entire frame are for. He drops his gaze. "Sherlock, I -"

"No," Sherlock cuts in savagely, giving him a brutal shake for good measure. Mycroft's eyes widen in further surprise, and, coldly, Sherlock delights in the beginnings of fear that seeps through their edges.

"No," he begins again, and even his voice is quavering with the storm of emotion building behind his eyes. "Don't be any more stupid than you've already been. Don't excuse yourself from what you've done. You harm him again and I will not hesitate to -"

"To what?" Mycroft cuts in with a false little laugh. The fraction in which Sherlock's glare falters is one which Mycroft uses to straighten with an air of importance. "Sherlock, don't be a child about this. You have neither the time or the resources," he says with a pointed downwards gesture, "to take me on, and more importantly, I was only trying -"

"I don't care what you were trying to do!" Sherlock absolutely thunders, and Mycroft swallows and steps back meekly as Sherlock steps in. "This is beyond childish feuds, Mycroft. I don't care about your paltry government or your boring life or any of the silly threats you could dangle over my head. You took what was  _mine_." His voice fractures on the last word.

Mycroft stares back, refusing now to be intimidated, and Sherlock works to calm himself enough to see through his anger. He's never felt so unhinged; especially not towards his own family.

But he and Mycroft have always been too smart to care, and this is the consequence.

"Think about it, Sherlock," he begins slowly. His firm grey eyes do not waver as he speaks. "You, what with your - somewhat reckless, past. Your doctor comes in and changes that."

"I adapted to fit the needs of the situation," Sherlock says sharply.

Mycroft's head jerks to the side. "Whether you like it or not, you were changed."

Sherlock glowers, but allows him to continue. "Now, you're... settling down with him. Creating a family. Now I just ask you... what would happen if something else came along that would also change you? I know your propensity towards impulse, Sherlock. Have you changed enough to have left that behind as well? Or, as I suspect, have you not thought this through as thoroughly as your doctor seems to think?"

Sherlock's eyes have narrowed into suspicious slits, and he peers further into Mycroft's face. "What are you saying?"

"There's a child involved now, Sherlock. You can't just drop it when this life, this life that you are not suited for at all, becomes too difficult."

"Then why take John?" Sherlock half snarls, tightening his grip on Mycroft's collar, as if he wishes he could shake the information out of the one human being who has ever been able to hide it from him. Was he even more incapable of empathy than he'd thought, or did it truly have any purpose? Pure malice was not his game. So to prove something, then. But what? Why -

His mouth curls into a tight, ugly smile. "Because I remember Victor. Or have you deleted that, too, brother mine?"

Sherlock's pale face is devoid of emotion. Until, abruptly, he begins to laugh. Oh, clarity. How sharp those crystal edges.

Mycroft's uncharacteristically open face of shock is enough to make him laugh harder, but in moments he sobers, shaking his head. His face turns back to his brother, but there's only the echo of humor in it now, lost to something darker and more sinister.

"You know, it's interesting, all your talk of changes. You're not a scientist so you wouldn't understand, but I'm sure you remember something of the properties of chemical and physical changes." He turns from his brother, begins to pace around the room and harbor a general air of wry amusement. He turns to his brother's office, surveying it for a moment before striding to the desk and taking a candle from its holder. He lays the candle down, shows the holder flat in his palm, extended towards Mycroft. "A physical change - the substance retains its original qualities." Without a word, he allows his hand to tip to the side, and the glass holder shatters across the carpet. "Still glass. Just glass in pieces."

Mycroft makes a disapproving noise, but Sherlock continues, now picking up the candle and the matches on the tabletop across from it. He strikes one, the flame flaring brilliantly before it quiets, and Sherlock's eyes are strangely illuminated as he brings the flickering light up to his face, watching it burn along the wooden stick. "Chemical change. Something new is created where it didn't exist before." He lights the candle, places it carelessly in one of the other empty holders before extinguishing the match. Smoke fans out, crossing his face, and he emerges from the cloud to stand before his brother again.

A sharp smile curves along his face, restless and looking as if it doesn't belong there. "Yes, I remember Victor. But both before and after him, I was very much the same person. How could you even compare what John and I have now to what I have left behind in the past?" He snorts condescendingly. "Observe, Mycroft. I am the one who pursued this. I am the one who has given up my old life to begin a new one. Me, I did it. John changed me, there is no doubt, but part of me wanted to be acted upon. Reactions don't just  _happen_. Everything must fall into place - electrons interlocking; molecules finding an equilibrium or tearing themselves apart in the trying."

"And what if it happens again?" Mycroft intercedes quietly, sounding defeated.

He shrugs. "In certain elements, chemical reactivity is extremely low, due to the fact that their outer levels are full of what are known as valence electrons." Another smirk, but softer now, with memory wearing down the sharpness of its edges. "Do you know what it is to be full, Mycroft? To be completed, in all your outermost parts? I doubt it." He turns back to his brother, and his eyes are almost... sympathetic. "Otherwise, you'd know how needless any of your worries are."

The room goes silent and still, both brothers sizing one another up from across the seemingly endless expanse of floor between them.

"Mycroft," he begins, soft and slow. "I am about to have a child. You cannot keep calling for the past or for Mummy or for your Secret Service. It's my turn. Let me be a father."

His brother clears his throat. "My," he starts, and a smile spreads slowly across his face. And it is almost full of... remorse. "You  _have_  grown up." It sounds like a revelation.

"I must." His mouth hardens into a thin line. "And that involves letting you know, brother dear, that if you touch them again I will not hesitate to tear you apart. In fact, I'm sorely tempted to do so now, considering you lied to me, let me suffer an entire night, took John against his will and made him a - a toy in your little test; frightened Harry and almost ruined everything, all for the sake of - what?"

"I was trying to protect you -" he starts, and is interrupted.

"From what?"

"You. I had to see what you would do without him by your side. I had to test whether or not you would be able to handle what you have now chosen. Permanently, and then make the proper steps following the results."

Sherlock stops in buttoning his coat, raises his cool gaze to his brother's. Tilts his head back imperiously. "Obviously, you did not know what you do now. But I also know that isn't just it. You can doubt me, be prepared for my fall. But there are others now who prevent that. In any case, you are still a threat, no matter your motivations - more so, if you think what you say has any effect on what I do for my family. More still, as you've just admitted how willing you are to do it again. So do not doubt me this time, Mycroft, when I say that it's only the baby keeping me from letting you know exactly the extent of your transgressions." His voice is a dangerous rumble, echoed in the thunder of his footsteps as he finally turns for the doors.

But just inches from the mahogany, he stops, his back still towards the room, his hands brushing at the brass knobs. He hesitates. Then, "It's a girl," he says, barely above a murmur.

Mycroft swallows, and in that instant - the sight of his younger brother, hand slung over his pregnant form, head bowed and hands trembling (the fear of loss, or the excitement of the reveal? Or something else?) - he feels a sharp stab of remorse, even if he still thinks what he did was, in the end, right. In any case, there's something in the young man, so old and young all at once, his blood and yet still so distant, that any further protests die on his tongue.

"My congratulations," he rasps at last.

Sherlock pushes open the doors and disappears from view.

 

___

 

As he walks, the rage that had dulled to a cool burn does not return, but it still simmers just under the surface. And it's frustrating, this clash between old loyalties and responsibilities, and how puzzling through it as not half as easy as most of his crimes. Over time, he supposes, he might come to understand why Mycroft did the things he did. Sherlock is master at unraveling problems, and this is most certainly something to solve.

But, confronted by the overwhelming and somewhat irrational urge to bury himself in the warm comfort of John's arms and touch and catalogue and assure himself that he was alive and well and not in the bloody idiotic clutches of his brother and his power complex, and feel the life that they had chosen together thrumming through every space where their skin touches, he lets the issue slip into the far corners of his mind - waiting, watching for that moment in the dark to reappear, when he could not escape it any longer. Because if he thinks about it now, he will be unable to stop, as the rage and agony and fear of that night will come surging back and demand resolution. They have not found their closure, and are aching for it.

But wrapping his arms around his middle, inhaling the cold winter air and feeling the vitality of it searing into his lungs and blowing away the uncertainties and troubled thoughts til they would circle back around again, he starts for home; its harbors of certainty and peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to take another moment to say thank you so much for your continued support, even in the face of my utter inability to budget time. The fact that you all continue to stick with this is just such a blessing.
> 
> As for future updates, I'm going to go ahead right now and say I cannot give you any definite dates. Things will happen or they won't, and though I wish I could just make it appear, it might be a little more difficult than that, and I want to do the best with what I'm given. In that vein, I'm also uncertain as to how the chapter count is going to go now. It'll be around the 14 or so that I originally intended, but I had to do some paring of this one, since I wanted to get it up and posted ASAP and thus had to cut a few scenes from the end. As such, the organization I'd intended for the coming chapters is just a bit off, and I'm not quite sure how I'm going to recombine everything. But rest assured, I'll be doing my best to get everything sorted and doing my best to do it quickly.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed, and I hope to see you soon!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even apologize at this point for the wait, but I'm going to try - so very, very sorry for keeping you waiting. Life enjoyed getting in the way of, ah, everything. See end of chapter for further notes on updates.
> 
> Thanks to [gryffindorandproud](http://gryffindorandproud.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who made an absolutely lovely cover for TSST and inducted it into her hall of [Sherlockian Modern Classics](http://gryffindorandproud.tumblr.com/sherlockianmodernclassics), so many thanks in that vein. You can see the cover in chapter one!
> 
> Thanks also, always, to KT-the-magic-beta, who somehow sticks around and is much too brilliant for me to ever measure up. 
> 
> And lastly to my readers, who have been so amazingly, wonderfully, stunningly faithful. I can't even begin to thank you all enough.

_(Sunday, February 26th, Week 24)_

"Alright, that's it."

Sherlock glances up from the kitchen table. Much better alternative to staring down at the thoroughly unappetizing plate of... whatever it is John has set before him. He lifts an eyebrow. "That's what?"

"We need..." John searches for words, biting his lip and squinting at the ceiling, as if they'll fall down from the plaster. "...we need a distraction."

"From?"

He huffs. "All of it? There's no case, no clients of any kind - even the website's been quiet. We're going mad all cooped up in this flat."  _And ever since you came home that night things have been off between us._  He doesn't say it, but Sherlock can see the way it flickers, just behind his eyelids before he turns away and passes a hand over his face.

Sherlock considers, pushing the plate subtly away from him as he leans forward on the table, tapping the tips of his fingers together. "What do you propose, then?"

The furrows in John's forehead deepen. He pushes the plate back. "You're very... question-y today."

It's Sherlock's turn to frown. "Question _ing_." The plate moves more firmly this time, scraping unpleasantly over the wood. "And you're posing a lot of vague statements, so why shouldn't I be?"

"Hey, calm down, no need to get defensive," John says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I only wanted to get your thoughts. You've just been a bit closed off recently, I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A humorless smile is tossed in his direction. "You're doing it again." He gives the dish a frankly violent shove, and the food wobbles precariously.

"Doing what?"

"That!"

"I don't know what 'that' is!" Sherlock cries in frustration, slicing the dish across the table. The kitchen is completely silent while they hold their breaths and watch as it tips over the edge, tips back, forward, back again, and finally crashes inevitably to the floor. Then quiet again, a deadly sort of quiet as John glares at him and the food starts to seep into the cracks of the tile.

Sherlock's hands go out helplessly before him. "I don't even know what  _that_  is," he adds, gesturing at the plate and the mush sitting sadly on the ground.

The exasperation on John's face softens into humor. "You deleted oatmeal?"

The corner of his nose wrinkles in distaste. "Who wouldn't?"

At this, John can't help but laugh, even as he's pacing back to the cupboards for a dust pan. "Oh, god; this is what I mean," he says, fingers closing over the handle, and he turns back to Sherlock. "Us, arguing over absolutely nothing. You and me," he muses, brandishing the pan thoughtfully, "we need to get away."

Sherlock casts his eyes down. He doesn't deny that he's been more absent than usual. Infant preparations, casework... dwelling overmuch on Mycroft's words. It all added up eventually. And often, they were used to the silence - it was one of the first things he'd told John, really.

But this had actually been  _days on end_ , and as John stoops to clean up another of his messes, he can see that behind his exasperation is a familiar concern. Irritation at needing to be looked after; anger that someone thinks he can't do it on his own - it should all be there, would have been in different circumstances but some instinct that has grown out of living with the man says otherwise. John's concern isn't babying. It's being a good man.

Sometimes, he forgets the magnitude of the strange coincidence that brought them together.

More often, he forgets that if he truly does care for him (by now not even a question), he should want to do certain things in thanks of it. He does. But sometimes the forgetting is too easy.

"Where?" he inquires, tracking John's careful movements.

"To get away?"

Sherlock's sigh says,  _don't make me repeat myself_.

John stands, rolls his eyes and moves to the rubbish bin. "Just making certain. I didn't think - wasn't actually sure you'd go for it, to be honest."

"That depends on the location. And a variety of other factors."

John flexes his hands over the back of the chair as he stares across at Sherlock. "Are we talking an actual holiday, or...?"

"It was your idea," Sherlock sniffs.

"Giving you input, Sherlock," he warns. "You like making all our plans, give me a minute to get used to the power here."

He quirks a smile upwards despite himself. John catches it, and smiles back, and just like that the last remnants of tension are draining out of the room. His squared posture drops, and his hands fall away from their clenched position.

"Give me a bit to think on it. Tea?"

"Please."

 

\-----

 

_(Wednesday, February 29th, Week 24 continued)_

John strides into the surgery lobby, spotting Sherlock in one of the waiting room's empty chairs. His face slouches into a grimace, and he makes his way over more slowly, huffing a little as he sinks into the seat.

"Don't say it," he says warningly as Sherlock opens his mouth. His lips curl in response, the hint of a smirk as John settles lower with another sigh. "Work was a madhouse," he groans, waving a hand wildly back at the direction where he'd come from. "Some sort of flu bug going around. Jesus, and I thought we were almost out of the danger zone for that."

"Apparently not," Sherlock says, folding his hands over his protruding abdomen. John runs a finger across the back of one hand, tracing where metacarpals lie just beneath the skin. It flexes under his touch. His eyelids flicker up to Sherlock's face.

"I am sorry I couldn't be there for the appointment."

Sherlock tips his head.

He frowns at Sherlock's silence. "What'd they say?"

The breath exits his nostrils noisily. "Nothing out of the ordinary. We're both fine." He flashes a quick smile, but John's lips remain downturned.

"Hey," he says gently, his hand now cupping Sherlock's fully. He tilts his head, peering up at him, even as Sherlock won't meet his gaze. "You okay?"

"Fine. Fine," he says again, staring down at the darker tones of John's flesh over his pale fingers. "Just... thinking." This time he relaxes visibly, some of the tension dissipating out of his shoulders, his spine uncurling, and his hand turning under John's to clasp his fingers. He raises it to his lips, and John's eyes narrow fractionally as his lips press against it and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Sherlock," he prompts, voice low.

His ice grey eyes, abruptly devoid of the warmth he'd felt in the touch just milliseconds before, snap open again, and he allows John's hand to fall. "Cab's waiting outside," he states briskly, sliding past John's steady look of concern, and rises with a careful hand over his belly.

But John catches his other fingers, and even when he stiffens doesn't allow him to pull away.

It's an uncomfortable sort of handholding as they pile into the back of the taxi, Sherlock staring down at it in some obvious discomfort and John growing more disconcerted by the minute. Awkward seconds dragging past, he switches to trailing it back up to the nape of Sherlock's neck and curls a finger through his hair, twisting absently. Sherlock shakes his head minutely, still refusing to look at his face.

"That tickles," he says with another shake, some time later, and can't stop a soft grin from creasing at the corners of his eyes. John jumps on it, smile broadening infectiously, but he sobers as Sherlock at last catches his gaze. His face, however, remains soft, and Sherlock stares into it with an unexpected - unexpectedly fierce - desperation as the taxi speeds closer and closer to home.

"I don't know - Whatever's wrong, or off, or if anything, really, is the matter," he says haltingly, hand stilling on the back of Sherlock's neck, "I want to help you, I want to be there for you. Whether or not you want to talk about it, I just - I'm here. D'you understand?"

There's something in the devastated lines of Sherlock's face that should be a warning sign, but John waits with lifted eyebrows. "I understand," he says thickly, and leans into John. John stares for a moment longer, and then sighs. He bypasses Sherlock's lips, tilting his head up and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, one to each cheekbone, over his eyelids, providing what small comforts he can give. Sherlock's mouth falls open, breath rasping over John's until he finally closes the distance. A soft sound falls from his lips, and John curves closer and breathes into him, allowing Sherlock to just do the same.

 _I love you._  John feels it whispered against his cheek, and presses his forehead against Sherlock's.  _I know_ , it says. He doesn't doubt there's more Sherlock needs to say. He doesn't doubt it for a second that this unspoken conversation needs, urgently and essentially, to come to words. He believes, as strongly as he knows that what Sherlock confessed in his silence is true, that he is ruminating on something. But as with any case, John also trusts him to find the answers in his own time.

So John pulls back, settles against his own seat, and offers some answers of his own. "I called Harry the other day. She's doing well," he responds to Sherlock's look of casually piqued interest. He smiles quickly. "She and Clara are. I mentioned our vacation idea, and Clara's parents have this lake house a bit north of here. It's, ah, too cold for swimming, or anything, but I think it could be nice."

"Sounds quiet."

"And that's so very much our style," John smirks, and Sherlock chuckles quietly. He turns his eyes up to John.

"But it could be. Nice."

"Really?"

Sherlock nods. "Really," he confirms.

A quick flush of pleasure rises across John's neck, wholly unexpected, and he quickly looks away. "We'll look into it more at home," he says to the window, and Sherlock can see the glassy reflection of a vivid smile against the backdrop of grey London speeding past.

 

\-----

 

That evening they call Harry, but it's Clara who answers the phone.

"John! Been much too long," she says warmly into the receiver, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut and sends a prayer to whoever's listening that he'll continue to call Harry and be able to hear her voice on the other end, too. "Harry says you're interrupting, so make it quick."

John barks a laugh. "Alright, do my best. Listen, we've talked about the lake house, and -"

"Oh, d'you love it? Knew you would. Everyone does. Mum and da don't use it nearly enough. Just come pick up the keys whenever," she says breezily.

"Oh. Ah, alright," he says, a little off-balance as she speaks right over him, but smiling nonetheless as he remembers days he'd listen to her chatter for hours, as her hands flew about like fluttery peach birds and her eyes lit up with the joy of her own stories, and her white teeth flashed with each gust of her ecstatic, catching laughter. Remembers how, in the early days, he'd see the same wondering smile written all across the lines of Harry's face, and how they were both rapt under her light. Clara had a magic to her, irresistible in its effusive charms, and he'd missed it, too. Missed it more for how it made Harry feel. But, at the sound of her giggling in the background, memory becomes reality, and he marvels at the simple, extraordinary (extraordinarily welcome) return of it.

They exchange a few more words, when Clara says suddenly, "I've never met this Sherlock of yours. I mean, Harry's told me all about him, of course. But I'm looking forward to it."

John darts his eyes over to Sherlock, who's laying on the couch, hands poised under his chin. "Yeah, me too."

"It's just... I know things were shaky with me and Harry, but, ah..." He can hear her shifting, and Harry's sudden silence in the background. "...you always tried to be there for us. I'm glad you've found someone who's there for you."

John swallows, and Sherlock turns his head. Their gazes lock. "So am I. More than glad," John says, an unexpected roughness coating his throat, and Sherlock quirks one corner of his mouth and turns away again.  _So much more than glad._

He sends them love, as per Harry's demand, only rolling his eyes briefly and with good humor, before shutting off his mobile. He sits on the couch next to Sherlock, clapping a hand on his thigh. "Well, that's that. Whenever we want it, it's ours."

"When do we leave?" he queries.

"I was thinking... Friday? Give us time to get our things in order, then we can have a weekend. Maybe a week if we decide we  _really_  like it," he smirks.

Sherlock arches his head back against the arm of the couch. "Acceptable." He opens one eye and peers down at John. "Will there be wi-fi?"

"Vacation, Sherlock. From the Latin for  _no, you arse, we're getting away from all that_."

A crease appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "I'm fairly certain that's incorrect."

John grins. "Either way. No cases, no job. Just us. Just for a bit," he promises, rising to his feet. "That acceptable, too?"

Sherlock sighs breathily, but there's mirth in his eyes when he says, "I suppose."

John gives him a playful slap on the knee before turning into the kitchen and rummaging through the fridge, frowning at the contents (or lack thereof). "Looks like a shop trip before lunch. We'll need some food for up at the lake, anyway. Coming?"

He turns and his eyes widen in surprise as he finds Sherlock crowding in behind him. "Of course," he says, and John nods, though he places a hand on his chest and pushes him back a bit, looking pointedly down his pregnant form. "Personal space, love. I'm not going anywhere. Er, except to the Tesco."

He misses the fractional sharpening of Sherlock's mercurial gaze, but flashes him another concerned glance when he continues to huddle closer on the stairs.

And though he still waits for the answers, waits for  _Sherlock_ , John can give him what he needs in the meantime, without knowing. Some things are unspoken, he repeats, in the mantra he's decided to take up until what Sherlock's working through becomes clear. He threads his fingers loosely through Sherlock's gloved hands and doesn't let go, and - for the moment - it's enough.

 

_\-----_

 

_(Friday, March 2nd, Week 24 continued)_

Friday morning arrives, crisp and clear, potential rising with the sun - but the sunrise is about where it ends.

"Ready?" Sherlock sighs as he wakes, voice rough with sleep, and John shivers out of his own slumber.

John gives him a strange look, nose scrunched and the skin around his mouth suddenly tense and white. "I think I'm going to be sick," he says, and before Sherlock can even think up a proper response, promptly is over the side of the bed.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock hovers over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder as she brushes past him into the flat, a plastic-covered bowl held gingerly between her hands. "It's a good thing you called me, Sherlock Holmes," she tuts without preamble, setting the dish down on the table and peeling back the overwrap. Steam unfurls from beneath the condensation-dotted cover that she tosses into the bin, and the warm aroma, distantly reminiscent of vague childhood illnesses and the warmth of his home's sunny yellow kitchen in the summer, diffuses throughout the room. He wrinkles his nose at the unexpected, sentimental thought. She turns a sharp eye back in his direction. "I've handled plenty of these nasty bugs. Leave it to me, and your doctor will be good as new in no time."

Sherlock, peering warily into the contents of the bowl and inhaling, steps aside guiltily when she shoos him away - presumably to watch, passive, as she does all the fussing.

He values her assistance, considering the circumstances. But truth be told, it was John who'd required - commanded, really - him to let her step in. "I am a doctor. I can take care of myself," he'd huffed around a grimace of pain, teeth clenching as he burrowed further into the blankets on their bed. Pale and feverish, it was only after minutes of Sherlock's anxious watching that he'd finally rolled over, eyes squeezing shut and his hands reaching upwards to cover them. "But if you're going to stand there worrying, get Mrs. Hudson to do it for you. Don't need you getting sick, too."

It was the first time he'd ever truly begrudged the presence of the daughter he was carrying.

It was an innumerable one in which he'd wondered at how irritatingly helpless he'd become - not altogether unwillingly - since John Watson became a permanent figure in his life.

As Mrs. Hudson pads lightly up the stairs, Sherlock lets his head dip against his chest. He slides his hands back and forth over the bulge under his sleep shirt, and feels the air from his rippling sigh ghosting across it as his gnashing jaw relaxes with each stroke. "You'll fall ill eventually, too," he begins conversationally, considering the skin and what lies beyond the surface. "Acquiring immunity to everything is physically impossible, though the antibodies I'm giving you should certainly help. Medicine is... somewhat improved. But your father - other father - knows a pleasantly surprising number of effective remedies. You'll generally be safe from the worst of it."

He frowns, hands stilling in response. For a moment he simply stares down, but he's not really seeing anything. "It's... alarming, the number of things we can't protect one another from. All three of us. Don't -"

A strong punch at his stomach stops him short. He glances down in surprise, the odd sensation of being kicked from the inside-out still processing. His fingers hesitate, then flutter down in quick succession, a rapid  _tap-tap-tap_  that is answered by another sharp rap from within. Despite his situation and the griping of mere moments before, a warm smile alights on his features.

"Ah," he breathes, looking toward the murky photograph now tacked with care to their fridge and dropping his head again, almost amazed at the amount that glossed ink, for all a picture might be worth, is not able to capture on its own. "There you are."

He doesn't pretend she understands any of what he's saying or feeling in that instant. Even with his intelligence alone passing down, it's a ridiculous notion. But deceptive, lovely sentiment still leaves him feeling softened at the edges; a feeling of being not quite so alone, not quite so uncertain. He hugs himself more tightly.

" _Oh_ ," he hears, and the moment dissipates when he raises his eyes to find Mrs. Hudson, fingers pressed to her lips, staring at him from the open arch of the kitchen. There is liquid pooling beneath her eyes, even as she attempts to blink it back.

He rises on shaky legs, alarm thrusting him upwards. "What?" his sharp voice commands, barely a question. "Is he -"

"Oh," she says again, and then chokes out a laugh. "No, dear, he's just fine. Resting now. I was just... you and the baby, there, I can see it."

He frowns, wondering at the suggestion that this is cause for tears. Unless -

She steps closer, places a comforting hand across his forearm and smiles up at him with her kind, deep eyes. "You'll make a lovely father. I've never doubted it, no matter the messes and the shouting and... you." Sherlock doesn't have time to be affronted before she's shaking a finger at him and saying, "And don't you doubt it, either."

"How can you know?" The question rises, unbidden and unwanted, before he can rein it back, but it hits the air and he flinches at the rawness of it hanging there between them.

She regards him steadily, and the silence is almost as terrible as the vulnerability of the words. "Parent to parent," she murmurs at last, and though she's smiling, the eyes that meet his own are fracturing, a deep sadness spilling out from within them. But it's not a sadness that spills out into tears - no; it's with a sort of familiar, quiet bravery that she stares upwards, broadens her lips into a full and radiant smile, and at last moves past him.

She's saying something about calling if he needs help, again offering so much more than he's ever deserved, but he isn't listening. And when she turns her back, he speaks instead. "Her name. What was it?" He never would have asked before. Irrelevant. But... it seems important. It seems more than important to know now.

A long, full pause. "Winnifred." She hesitates again, and he watches her spine pull straight and her head tip back as she inhales. "It means 'joy'. She was my greatest." The pain is gone from her tone, the ache of years having dulled it. There's a wistfulness to it, a quiet grief that would flare like trick candles until she was dead and gone - but she is far from crippled. What happened has made her... better, somehow. Not the loss, but what she has gained.

In the way only a parent can, he understands, both what is said and what passes silently between them before their landlady makes her way back to her own home below. And, he thinks, privately, is better for it. The parent-to-be and the parent-who-was; they both share that curious conflict between protecting at all odds and taking the necessary risks, both themselves and the ones they love by blood and bond alike. And, as with any burden, one that is shared is more easy to bear.

No, he realizes at last, feeling a calm he hadn't felt in days - weeks - spread, tingling, throughout his muscles, his arms relaxing to their now natural position poised across the expanding crest. No, he isn't alone. Far, far from it.

 

\-----

 

"You shouldn't be in here," John's voice, reminiscent of particularly unpleasant combination of wet and sticky gravel, enters his consciousness and startles him from his thoughts.

But he doesn't respond, instead curls closer to John's back, stomach just brushing against his spine with every swell of breath in his chest. He exhales across the scar vining around his shoulder, and John's skin jumps, shivering, in response. He gives a breathy laugh. "You're a nutter," he rumbles, affection in the way his hand curls back over Sherlock's hip for a brief moment before slipping away again.

"I had my flu vaccine," he says in response, forehead resting at the nape of John's neck.

"So did I," John counters, his head tilting up fractionally to peer behind his shoulder at Sherlock. The closed curtains and doors turn the day away, washing everything in murky tones of deep blues and greys, and in his blurry, aching mind the slope of Sherlock's body is just a faintly glowing light. His eyes fall closed around the image, a spot of white in the darkness on the backs of his lids.

To Sherlock, whose eyes have had time to adjust, John is the more ragged version of his usual self - he counts each new pinprick of perspiration as it appears along his hairline; he notes the small groans he makes in his uneasy sleep; he watches the minute furrows appear over his brow. Every infinitesimal shift of the body as it works to combat infection, every manifestation of it across John's frame, is tracked. And in doing so he wonders if John has done the same in the past months - watching life burgeon, just as now Sherlock watches his decay.

It's an exaggeration of the most extreme sort - John will be fine. Sherlock knows this as he knows the map of his scar. It would take more than influenza, even the worst case, to best John Watson. But it makes him think of all the other processes of life they will eventually watch one another undergo. Even now, as their child grows inside him, the passage of time is evident in the way it inescapably streams along, visible in every dying and birthing atom alike; it is an awareness that ticks away with every pulse of their hearts. And he is also aware of how much every second desperately needs to count.

Again, Sherlock doesn't move to reply. He noses into the knob at the top of John's spine, closing his eyes. John makes an effort to protest, knowing the dangers of the illness for both Sherlock and the baby, but it's half-hearted at best. There's something in the rhythm of Sherlock's steady breaths, and the warmth curving along his vertebra, that is attempting to speak all those things Sherlock could not say. And - since they rarely opted for the safe choices, even in the protection of one another - it's all too easy to fall sway and listen instead as he drifts into dreams once more.

"Five more minutes," he relinquishes with a sigh, "and then you go wash your hands and find something to do, alright?" He should order him to go. It's for the best. Five minutes could be the same as hours of exposure, the doctor in him argues. But for all that, he can't deny him this.

He hears the rustle of Sherlock's nodding against the pillow, and in something akin to an almost shy relief, his arms wind around John's sides and press him close. He's not sure whether it's the delirium of fever or not, but he thinks he hears the basics of what these warm embraces say as they guide him down into sleep.

 

\-----

 

( _Thursday, March 8th, Week 25_ )

It's a strange haze of meds being shoved into his hands and tea cups scalding his shaking, sweaty fingers, and the soft strains of violin music drifting through the grates and resonating in his ears, one incident of Sherlock banging open his door with the words, "John! Finally! A case!... Oh. Right," and promptly exiting, a few more incidents of ordering his flatmate-cum-lover gruffly-but-fondly to sleep on the couch, and countless other moments that could have been his odd, hallucinated dreams - Sherlock falling from the sky and sprouting wings just before he hits the ground, fifty Mrs. Hudsons appearing in his room and each one offering him blanket upon blanket until the bed caught fire with the heat of it - or, just as likely, his equally odd reality.

Eventually, though, the fog lifts, and though still not ready to jump after Sherlock when he does flourish his phone and swirl off to a crime scene, he's at last well enough (or just fed up entirely with doing nothing) to want to make his own way down the stairs. Something in Sherlock lifts at the sound of hesitant footfalls on the stair, and he watches, frozen to his armchair, as John enters the room and sends him a genuine smile.

Sherlock is absolutely powerless to keep from returning it, and then abruptly, is powerless to keep his next words from tumbling into the air. "It was Mycroft."

John's smile dissolves into confusion. He holds up a hand. "No, no; not well enough yet to listen to you gripe about what your brother's done now." Sherlock can hear him starting the electric kettle as he turns into the kitchen, and waits somewhat nervously, hands folding rigidly beneath his chin and his leg hitching up across his other thigh. His back creaks a small complaint, and he lowers the same foot with more reluctance.

John's already back in the room, eyeing his jitters with the characteristic half-confusion, half-amusement that have been absent for the past week. But Sherlock can't do more than a passingly reflexive relief - the rest of him is intent on the conversation that has been prowling around the shadowed corners of their lives, evident in the tension of every absence of conversation, the reason behind their aborted holiday. The truth of the matter was, Mycroft's words had begun to grate on him. And it was so simple; should have been so easily deleted, but he can't forget the cruel superiority of his brother's knife-edged grin, informing him of how little he believed in him; how honestly he admitted his doubt. And so he himself has been doubting, both himself and what they, together, are creating. And this crippling insecurity, only vaguely remembered from a childhood of teasing and being different and [ _deleted_ ], had begun a slow resurgence from the fog of memory; nameless, shapeless fears of who he is and what he is not rising to choke back the words that would have asked for reassurance.

But now he has begun, and he is going to finish it - only he can fix this for himself. Only he, with something to prove.

He and John, he has discovered with some wry satisfaction, are men of action. As much as John loves the idea of expression, Sherlock knows he'd rather walk alongside Sherlock with a gun in his hand than talk with him, and Sherlock is no different - shooting a cabbie for him, for instance, within their first hours of knowing one another, had said more than would have a declaration of devotion.

Even he, however, must admit that there are few things that would be difficult to convey accurately with action alone - unless one resorted to charades, and they were definitely  _not_ going there again.

So he snaps his book shut, and turns his serious gaze on John. John's eyebrows crawl slowly up his forehead, then retreat even further down, his lips furling into a grimace. "Alright, what did Mycroft do this time?" he sighs, sinking into the folds of the couch. With a quick second glance, he pulls the yellow blanket tossed carelessly over the sofa's arm across his lap and burrows in.

Sherlock sucks in a breath.

"A few months ago, you were abducted. I have recently been informed that this was Mycroft's doing, for," his upper lip curls into a snarl, "reasons that are baffling even to myself."

John stares.

"I... debated on whether or not to inform you. I knew you were somewhat desperate to cultivate an ideal family life for us, considering the difficulties in your own childhood and the obstacles of our lifestyle. I had imagined that by keeping his deception from you, I was protecting you."

At John's continued silence, he rushes on, fearing that if he stops he won't be able to begin again. "I am now aware of the..." For the first time he hesitates, and his hands come up to gesture feebly in the air. "Value, of the truth," he decides at last, hurrying on. "And of your value." His eyes slide away from John's as he corrects himself. "I always was - am - aware of how much you mean, but I understand my actions may not have been in your best interest. I should have allowed you to decide that for yourself."

Silence.

"And also Mycroft is a prat."

Then, more softly, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't look over, feigning interest in the dusty cover of his novel. The words don't even register in his eyes; every sense instead trained on what goes on in the background he refuses to look at but is almost painfully aware of. White noise crackles in his ears in the absoluteness of the quiet.

And then, abruptly, John's shadow is falling over him. Sherlock's head jerks back in surprise. John smiles. He sinks to his knees, hands covering the knobs of Sherlock's and sliding up his thighs before one lifts, the pad of a calloused finger rasping on the stubble of Sherlock's jaw and drawing his chin up. "Thank you for telling me," he murmurs with a great sincerity, burning like a cold flame in his blue eyes.

Sherlock's mouth works before an incredulous, barking laugh at last slips out. "You're not angry?" He's fairly irritated at the thought. He'd poured a great deal of worry and time into this for very little reaction, after all, and John was sitting there and... _is that a smile_?

"Angry? I - You just shared more with me than you've shared in the past two, three weeks. It was late, yeah," he concedes, dipping his head, "but it happened. I'm not the best at this, either. But this is us, working. I'm sort of... proud of you," he says, somewhat abashed, and straightens to his feet with a clearing of his throat.

The kettle gives a sharp whistle, an insistent demand that John leaves to answer. When he returns, there's a mug clenched in each hand, and he gives one over and snags a hip against the arm of Sherlock's chair, leaning in conspiratorially.

"I'll have some choice words for your brother, definitely. I hate what he did to you; I hate that he didn't tell me. I hate that he had to interfere at all when he has no right to do so." His voice is dark, and a slight shift of his shoulders calls to mind the soldier Sherlock had only ever been given glimpses of, hard-eyed and determined and fierce. He shivers, and for a moment almost pities his brother. But just as he catches it, the vision has disappeared as a desert mirage, leaving a more considerate, more secreted, version of John in its place.

"But that's Mycroft. Interfering is what he does. And to be fair," John says, nosing along the china as he tests the water's heat, "you are both absolute lunatics, and that's something I'm used to by now. Granted, he's never drugged me as part of it before, but it's not as if this is the first time your brother has abducted me off the streets."

Despite himself, Sherlock smirks. "True." He shifts over, shoulder brushing against John's hip. "You're not even going to do anything about it?"

He feels a hand in his hair, a pleasant smoothing of John's fingers threading amongst his curls and petting in gentle strokes. "I've been mad at your brother before. Actually, furious. But, ah... he paid for it then. I can actually take care of myself."

The crux of the issue slips in unassumingly, and Sherlock mulls over it in contemplative silence, pulling it agonizingly from some place beneath his ribs as he finally presents it. "I'm realizing how little I can do."

John's hand stills at the confession. When it resumes, it's with deeper care, and there's a renewed warmth in the careful cup of his hand over the globe of Sherlock's skull. "We do what we can, love. And sometimes, it's not going to be enough. Sometimes, I don't know why we try."

A melancholy threatens in the air above their heads. Though it's still early morning, the room feels darker, the space strangely claustrophobic as his voice falters. But Sherlock's spine straightens. And then it is abruptly him on his feet, moving as ably as he can to stand in front of John. He grabs at his hands and fastens them over his belly, leaning into John's space, leaving the closed suffocation of the living room behind for the infinity between them. He scrunches his nose, crooks a grin at him from beneath his eyebrows, fierce and honest. "Yes, you do."

It's one of those times they understand one another perfectly, and nothing more need be said.

"Still contagious?" Sherlock murmurs, heavy eyes dropping to John's lips.

A tongue darts between them. "Better not be," he says, breath gone shallow, one hand reaching around to the fleshy curve of Sherlock's hips and stroking up and around the back of his thigh, "because I don't think I can stop myself from k-"

His words are lost in the happy hum of Sherlock's mouth dipping into his own, and for a long while after that, no words are necessary at all.

 

\-----

 

"Amelia," Sherlock whispers, punctuating the name with a lazy bite to the tender skin beneath his chin. John arches into the touch, jaw falling slack as his head twists just the slightest bit away, but his silence is thoughtful in the hazy dark of the room.

"'S nice. Where'd you hear it?"

He tongues the rasp of John's stubble, sliding over the shell of his ear. "Irrelevant."

John's musing is interrupted only by a shiver that unfurls down from along his spine, and, seeking a grip, his fingers clasp the hard ridge of Sherlock's ankle where it's thrown over his side. "Why?" he breathes at last, thumb shifting over the bone, and with a private smile Sherlock nudges further up his sweat-stained body, one splayed hand firm over the relaxing beat under his collarbone.

"It means work," he answers to the rhythm of the heart beneath his fingers, and his next devilish grin hovers just over John's waiting, parted lips. He watches John strain for a moment, ruminating quietly for a last, precious few seconds, and then sinks into them with the murmur, "She has been, and will be, our greatest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We're nearing the end of this thing, so stay tuned. I dare not make any promises about when I can have the next chapter done for you, but there's quite a bit of information to squeeze into the next one, so all I can ask for again (and I do hate to ask) is your patience. We're about to step things up a level here, so you can spend your time gearing up for that! Thanks again :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Time got away from me," more like "Time and I dated for ages but then left me at the altar and took the red-eye to Antarctica where Time then spent seven months researching penguins and ended up falling in love with one of them and thus now raises two lovely Time-Penguin babies." Ahem. Essentially, here's to you, reader, if you're still sticking around through this insanity. Please see the end of the chapter for even more notes concerning THE LAST CHAPTER, dun dun dunnn. I can hear you praising the End of WIP Day already.

( _Sunday, March 19th, Week 27_ )

Sherlock sits on the dock, feet dangling in the murky waters of the lake and sending gentle ripples out to vanish in the nowhere. The first time he'd done it, legs plunging over the side of the canoe, John had disapproved - no doubt either thinking of lake pests and infection, or of the sudden, crazed rocking of the boat that threatened to tip them both into the icy, not-even-spring-yet waters.

But either way, John is not here now. He'd left him asleep early that morning, creeping down in his bare feet over dewy grass and cold, hard earth to where the dock stretched out into the lake, just slightly askew at the end where one of the pegs had sunk down further into the mud.

It's boring, on the outset. There are no cases. There is no internet, a frustrating impediment to any research he's needed to do. There's not even a television for mindless reality shows to occupy their time. Before, Sherlock would have gone mad in a matter of hours.

It wasn't as if he didn't know how to appreciate the quiet things. A starlit sky, for instance, was beautiful, as he'd once said while walking with John through the city on that oddly illuminated night so long ago. But those things were fleeting enjoyments, pleasing for a few passing moments, unlike the glow of satisfaction from a case that lasted however long it took to solve or the pleasure gained from the eventual success of a tricky experiment.

Now, however, here in the stillness with John sleeping in the house behind him, a baby on the way, nothing to interrupt his focus - there's an odd kind of peace to it. When everything goes not quite silent in his head, but muted enough.

Sometimes it bewilders him, shocks him into complete and utter stillness of being, how much he's changed.

He is as conscious of the weight cradled in his lap as he is the weight of its meaning.

So when John finally pads out beside him, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt and cupping a steaming mug of tea in his hand, Sherlock doesn't resist leaning into his leg in a quiet, unspoken plea. Scratchy fabric meets cheek where it glides across the groove of John's knee, coming to rest amid the folds and steady muscle beneath. He smells like sleep, hints of bergamot, the piney undertones of their cabin vacation fading as only John is left behind in his senses with each deep and steady inhale, rocketing into his brain like the tide and pulling just as insistently. Rasping soundlessly over the cloth, his eyelids flutter shut. Open again. Watch the sun begin to spill through the trees beyond the lake.

John's unoccupied hand reaches down and threads into his hair, stroking through the strands in comforting, easy rhythm, cradling him close as they both stare out over the glassy surface of the water and watch the fog-drifts float by; disappear and reappear in a dance on the breeze. "Ready, then?" John asks at last, voice sandpaper-rough with sleep and just this side of longing.

Sherlock only nods. They both shiver as the silent wind changes.

* * *

The windows are perched in the high corners of the room, sending shafts of light down through the thick bookcases and wooden tables and illuminating the creamy crown molding and ivory pillars that lend shape and weight to what would otherwise be a small and boxy room. At once solemn and airy; at once simple and grand. The dust motes like diamonds as they hover just above their heads.

"Sort of feels like a church," John shrugs, sending a smile up at him as he mutters the words beneath the louder overtones of the registrar.

Sherlock considers. A church was unnecessary, small civil ceremony and all that. "Did you want a church?" he asks anyway, voice low.

Minute shake of the head confirming his suspicions. "Not important."

Settling back on his heels, Sherlock privately agrees. He has right here all that is consecrated and held dear; all he might ever worship is at his side and tucked beneath the fluttering folds of his shirt, and that he can do without the hand-holding of saints and watchful, warped eyes of stained glass windows. That he does in their quiet moments, in the thoughts spared for them, in the thousands of little, seamless ways that stitch their lives together. Inseparable, forever.

"I do." John tips his head, smiles, tight. Catching Sherlock's eyes, it loosens, softens all the lines of his face. Peace. He's never seen such peace. Peace that promises danger and safety alike; threatens to tighten his chest till it bursts with the marred perfection of it.

He's distracted by Mrs. Hudson in the background for a moment, his eyes flicking over to her as she sniffs, loudly, and gives a watery little sigh. She smiles at him when he meets her gaze, and makes a 'go on' gesture that Lestrade mimics at her side - albeit with a smirk, but a glad one. The two of them obviously waiting, expectant, though not as much as John where he stares up from just a step away, his blue eyes turned brilliant by the light haloing down around them. And he's smirking a little, because wasn't Sherlock just sighing at the tedium and wishing they could hurry this whole process along and be done already? Yes, he supposes he was.

They're waiting on him, for those last words, but the truth is he'd said them ages ago, back when it might have sounded like something else on his lips but was always intended for this. Ever since John Watson walked into his life, guns and smiles blazing, the promise of constancy has always been there. Whatever capacity, whatever form, whatever obstacle. Sickness, health, takeaway at two in the morning or chasing criminals down frozen city streets. It has been there always. It is infinite.

His lips curl, wide, wider, forming around the words he already sees reflected back at him from John's eyes, around the knowledge that is sealed in the meet of their lips mere seconds later - "I do."

The necessary paperwork done, vows read, rings exchanged, it's over, and they all traipse out to the parking lot under a morning spring sky that promises rain later, though at least for now the sun struggles bravely on to shed its watery light over their little party. Lestrade had driven himself and Mrs. Hudson up just for the occasion, the both of them more than happy to oblige the need for witnesses, and his car waits in its spot to carry them home while Sherlock and John enjoy turning the second half of their vacation into something of a honeymoon.

Mrs. Hudson is still crying, and he's tempted to point out when enough is enough, but John silences him with a look before he can even begin to complain. To any effect, though, she's happier than he's seen her in ages, and for a woman who was perpetually cooing over them it had to be something. Looking at John laughing with her as their steps carry them closer to the silver Mazda, he knows it is.

Lestrade hangs back with him, hesitating with his hands burrowed in his pockets. He, too, looks pleased, though something unsettled rests in the divot of his eyebrows. Sherlock's paces slow with his, till they're paused together in the middle of the empty lot, aimless coats adrift about their ankles.

He waits, until at last Lestrade rolls his shoulders back and sighs. "Listen, I just - thank you. Really. I'm happy for you, the both of you, and being a witness - " He looks oddly embarrassed, cheeks flushing as he peers down at the ground in a strange evasion. "Thank you. I'm really, truly honored," he says again, sincerely, and when he looks up there isn't a lie in his eyes.

But there's still concern, and Sherlock's not going to let it go. His eyes narrow, even as he inclines his head in thanks. "But?"

After a moment more of deliberation, Lestrade releases his breath in a puff of air. "It's your brother."

Sherlock very nearly rolls his eyes. "What about him?"

"I know you've never been on the best of terms, but you've got to understand he's - he's sort of broken up about it, whatever it was that happened between you two. Though of course he'd never say anything." He snorts. "You Holmes boys and your Spock impressions."

His eyes narrow further, and his stare darts assessingly around Lestrade but no new facts jump out at him, just this constant concern with his well-being and their family life and _typical, typical_. "How would you know?" he asks anyway.

"Just trust me on this," he asserts, brown eyes gone wide and full of a depthless kindness where he holds his gaze. Eventually he breaks off, and one hand slithers out of its pocket to reach forward. Sherlock looks down his nose at it.

"If I shake your hand, am I required to go see my brother afterwards?"

Lestrade raises an amused eyebrow, but there's a hidden smile tugging at the corner of his lip. "No, no, just - just good luck, is all, with the whole marriage thing. You'll need -" he looks at John, back to Sherlock, smiles. "Nah, maybe not." Sherlock stretches a hand out and clasps it, fingers squeezing. Lestrade's own fingers tighten, and his grin widens. "Though it would be nice if you did, you know. Visit your brother."

While Sherlock glowers -  _not bloody likely_  - Lestrade turns and starts making his way back to where John and Mrs. Hudson chat by the side of the car. He follows when he's had a suitable sulk, and arrives in time to hear Lestrade muttering, "Somehow you'll bloody well manage." John laughs in response, humor-filled eyes sliding over to Sherlock. They darken as their gazes lock, something familiar stirring in their depths.

"Mmm, suppose I will," he nods, tearing his eyes away and fixing Lestrade with a sunny smile instead. "Thanks so much for coming up."

"No trouble at all. Fun to get away for a bit. When you all thinking about heading back?"

"Next Saturday maybe?" he confirms with a dip of his head in Sherlock's direction. "Save some good cases for us. This one'll be itching for something to do."

"I  _am_  right here," he grumbles.

"Yes, and you still can't deny it."

Lestrade laughs. "Alright, will do." He turns to Mrs. Hudson at his elbow, who smiles up brilliantly. "You ready? Leave these two lovebirds alone?"

She nods. "Oh, I think so. One more hug for my boys, though," she giggles, as if unable to resist, and John steps willingly into her embrace. He clasps her shoulders tightly, and Sherlock finds his chest tightening oddly as well with the sight, more so when she smiles up at him and snakes her arms around his frame to pull him close. Her weight feels fragile in his arms, her rosewater scent delicate as he inhales, but he knows she's anything but and so, so much more.

It seems to be the case, he thinks, that these quiet, unassuming people walk into his life and wreak all sorts of havoc, havoc you wouldn't believe unless you'd seen it with your own eyes. Analyzing them all before him, he notes the pattern and, like any other puzzle, keeps it always close in his thoughts, as if one day the reasoning will jump out at him from along the lines of all their interconnected threads. Perhaps not. In this case, the end result doesn't seem to matter.

He raises an eyebrow at John, and his response is a small nod of consent, an excited, wondrous light growing in his eyes that's become so familiar in the past few months.  _After all, he never did write that blog entry._  His face swivels back to Mrs. Hudson, where she waits with his hands still at rest on her arms. "Boys, yes," begins John slowly.

"...and girl," Sherlock finishes, a pointed hand rising to his front, and a small smile slowly splitting across his features.

Her eyes widen, and a hand darts to her mouth. "Oh!" she chokes out, while behind her Lestrade's own face cycles through confusion, shock, and happiness, and the both of them surge forward again to offer their congratulations.

"Oh, good, more hugs," Sherlock mutters, but it's only half-sarcastic as he's engulfed once more in his landlady's arms. Mrs. Hudson's enthusiasm, given everything in her past and in his, is... somewhat infectious. John's smirking at him when he straightens. He resists the urge to do something so juvenile as stick his tongue out.

"You got a name, then?" Lestrade, curious, asks as he claps a hand on John's arm.

This time when their gazes lock, John's glance isn't one of permission. "Um, still thinking," John answers. Sherlock masks his confusion easily, but makes a note of asking later. It matters little to him. He can wait for an explanation. And, if it's anything like it's been in the past, he thinks he might understand as it is - some things are theirs, and only theirs. At least for now. He feels a bit of a stir, looks down and clasps with an almost inaudible shush.

John's hand, warm and gentle, slides around his waist and cinches him close in response. One embrace he strangely never seems to tire of. He smiles, just a quick widening of his mouth, but with a low pang Sherlock realizes how sorely he's tempted to lean down and catalogue how it tastes on his lips.

"Well, we won't keep you," Lestrade says with a deliberate cough, and when Sherlock steals a quick glance the both of them are smirking with folded arms against the car. They really look much too pleased with themselves. "C'mon, Mrs. Hudson; back to London with us."

"Yes, I think that's right, Inspector," she replies, a twinkle winking in her eye as she goes around to the passenger side and opens the door. Before she steps in, she hesitates, and finally calls back, "Take care of yourselves, and that nice little cottage. There's no one to do your housekeeping for you now!"

"We'll manage," John says around a laugh he just can't quite hold back. "Have a safe trip."

"Congrats again, you two," Lestrade says with a wave.

"Cheers," John answers, still looking pleased, and Sherlock tips his head. The doors close and the engine starts. Sherlock and John back away over the asphalt as the car exits the space, making its way onto the street and slowly disappearing from view on the winding country road.

John watches as it goes, but Sherlock is far more fascinated by the glint on John's hand where his ring catches the weak light. Simple accented gold, and silver for Sherlock. Just a piece of metal, made special only by who it belongs to. Who it means John belongs to, in every sense of the word.

He turns in John's grip when the car has gone, bringing his own hands up to splay over his sides, feeling the expansion of his ribcage beneath his fingers as John's attention is drawn to his face. One hand slips around and trails over his chest, crisp grey suit-jacket, light blue collar, that indigo tie; fingers meet skin and glide up over his cheek, cupping his jaw. "I want to marry you," he says seriously, thumbing over the soft skin beneath his eye, head dipping so the words are muttered into the space above his lips.

John's laughter bubbles up in a steady burst, the sound punctured by a silent disbelief and wonder that they still can't shake. "I think you just did," he reminds him affectionately, his arm coming to mirror the other on his hips as he tilts his head up just enough to steal a chaste kiss. Sherlock leans in as he pulls away, keeping them connected as he curves over, his splayed fingers on the back of John's neck pulling him in with a quiet insistence. "We are in public, love," John mutters as Sherlock's lips slide over his cheek, up his jaw, husk over his ear.

He wants to know if 'husband' changes the way he tastes. He wants to know if the ties that bind are physical, now, between them; if the law and this new knowledge and this belonging makes it any different. But he and John - gasping now, mouth forming around his name, fingers digging into his flesh - know the truth. They have always belonged. "Husband," he tries anyway, and it just makes John giggle. Sherlock swallows the sound, because it belongs to him, too.

* * *

Sherlock's swell rests between them, skin stretched tight like a canvas over his belly, but it's pale and unpainted, unmarked but for his protruding navel and where John's fingers rest in the slopes of thick flesh at his sides. His hipbones, once sharp, have now been lost in the dip of his waist, canted and outspread, though his ribs continue to flute up sharply beneath his chest. They stand stark as he inhales, fade again into that creamy background as the breath leaves him in a steady sigh. Unlike a woman, his chest has not grown heavy, but his nipples rise dusky and thick, the pebbling gooseflesh cascading down like water to gloss his frame until he is lost to the shivers. It sparks into being with the slow swipes of thumb over skin, a careful cupping of John's hand over his lungs, a determined slide of lips over his collarbone. A reverent gust of air shaking across his ear. Soft words whose shape and form is lost to skin but there in its meaning, there in every mouthing kiss.

They do not make love to each other. Sherlock's back is aching and his feet pinch and he is, as is becoming increasingly common, tired. So when they get back to the lake house and John asks and Sherlock shakes his head, there's nothing more that need be said, because John lays him back on the bed and worships him anyway.

"We have plenty of time," John says, his eyes dark but soft, all at once, some impossible conglomeration of color and emotion in his gaze, as it falls behind his eyelids and his hands reach out, careful strokes, and he sighs, "for everything."

And Sherlock shivers to think of it. He lays back, relaxed into a mattress that could be more comfortable but will do for now, spread out naked and lazy on the sheets, and he thinks of all the time they still have and all they will do. Not just here in a bed, surprised as those thoughts are themselves to slide into his head, but all of their lives, spread out just in the manner he is - vulnerable, open, ready for the taking and savoring every sweet step of the journey.

In his mind is the hazy-faced child perched on John's shoulders, the old injury forgotten in the joy on his face as they race around some grassy hill and she stretches her arms for the sky like a bird; in his mind are flashing, red-blue lights and yellow tape strung up in forests and cities and suburbs and he and John are there in each cordoned zone because beyond the barriers is where they have always belonged; London skyline prickles the back of his eyelids with her beauty and her terrifying mystery, her withheld treasures, the ones she has deigned, through chance, to give him.

Sometimes they are just here, John learning him as if Sherlock is a textbook and all the little jumps and leaps in his ticking skin are words that John sees and commits to memory with every pass of his skin, of his lips, of heartbeat against chest and fragile heartbeat.

John hums against his rounded flesh. "I can hear you thinking," he smirks. He rolls his head so his cheek rests softly upon his abdomen, and from the corner of his eyes he fixates on Sherlock up above him.

"No, you can't." A huff of air, movement jostling John's head and bringing a smirk to Sherlock's own face. "But just what am I thinking?"

He sighs, long and steady as he thinks, turning so he lies parallel to Sherlock, head at his bellybutton and elbows bent beneath him so he's supported just enough to lean over and press a kiss above it. Gentle, considering. "You were thinking," the words mouthed against skin, "that this," words running up in a line towards his sternum like ink being drawn across a page, "is," the hot breath for emphasis as it tongues along his jugular, the beating heart in his throat, "perfect." Decided nip just to the side of his chin, laving tongue to follow, precious lips at last.

Sherlock smiles. "No."

John stops. He lifts himself higher, and tilts his head over Sherlock's, eyes going quizzical. "No?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Well what, then?" John asks, giving up and rolling just off to his side in defeat with his head propped in his hand. Sherlock brings him back with a firm grip on his upper arm so they're pressed together in one long line from chest to twining feet, John curving around the crest of him like the missing puzzle piece that has slotted into place. The contact in ever fiber of skin, every filament, is fire sparking between them, like livewire electric current in an unbroken circuit.

His fingers flex on John's arm, one after the other, and he watches the slow indentations each one makes as they appear and fade, where John is touched and where John is held and where John is kept. He could bruise. He could tear. His eyes slide over to John's, where his own are questioning and open. Slide away. John would let him in an instant. But amazing, amazing still after all this time, that he is allowed to touch and hold and keep cradled and safe; that this trust exists is most amazing of all. That he is trusted with someone so infinitely precious.

"I think that sometimes I'll hate you," Sherlock breathes, and ignores the sucked breath of air from his side to steal it back, a deep kiss that coaxes him back out, coaxes him to sighing open-mouthed against him. "I think that I'll get so bored I can hardly stand it. I think you'll yell at me when I forget things you think are important." Each sentence has its own kiss to capitalize on, languorous things exchanged as much as his words; heavy, wet, wanting, they slide open before fitting together, swipe of tongue whisking over his own, a brace of teeth on plump bottom lip and always the soft sounds of sighed desires and mouths moving together. "I think we'll fight. I think we'll have angry sex." Rasp of nails over his shoulder; a promise. "I think we'll forget to have sex. I think we'll grow old and frail. I think I'll hate it. Blame you. You'll blame me."

He pulls back gradually, phasing out with the chaste, closed brush of his lips on John's while his knuckles stroke over his cheek, watching the skin spread with the furrows of his confusion. He wonders what he'll look like with wrinkles. He closes his eyes, hot sting, unexpected surge of heat and love, sadness and rage and love, fear and love, love, all at once, as he holds John close and close and closer. Between them rests where they are one, in what is now gone on to something else entirely. A sharp kick. John feels it and smiles like a second sun. His hand clasps in hope of another, left hand, gold ring hovering over pale skin. They wait, and the second prod comes, a smattering of some tiny being's reaching for life from within. Sherlock watches his face transform and feels it all, feels everything, a thousand times over.

Terrifying, this. Change. Metaphor gone physical, the literal made figurative and back again.  _See? Body's betraying me._ And now even his words, of their own volition, spilling to the warm-gold light of afternoon where it is safest - because John keeps him, too.

He surges forward, kisses John, hard, so he will not forget. So he can convey the rest. He opens his mouth. No sound. He tries, but the words are stuck, harried in their rush to open air, too many of them to all ever make it. But then John speaks.

"And you think that you will love me always. You think we will do something so dull as paint the nursery blue, and it will be  _fun_. You think I'll tell you I love you at crime scenes. I won't tell you, but I'll chase after the murderers with you because that's better than all the endearments. And you think we'll be so sickeningly in love Amelia will roll her eyes and tell us how disgusting we are, and you think maybe, one day, we'll have another kid so they can do it together. And you think you will kiss the back of my neck when I'm making us tea. You think we will be quiet, sometimes, reading in our chairs by the fire, and you think we'll be loud when we laugh on adrenaline and spend our days running through the city. And you think that one day when we're finally ancient we'll have bad sex and laugh. You think we'll have good sex then, too, and not even care because that time will be over and we'll have found something better. You're thinking of morning lie-ins and late night stakeouts and 'til the end of our days." John finally takes a breath, nuzzling close beneath his chin and inhaling deep and low. "You think that I will love you always, and you're right, because even if everything else isn't perfect, that alone, that - that is."

John lifts his head again in the following silence, looking oddly bashful at his own words. "Is that… ?"

Sherlock gasps like a sob, like a hurricane, like the Big Bang and he buries his forehead in John's shoulder. The words escape on the breath, and it doesn't matter. "Yes," he cries, and he quakes and quakes under the weight of it. "Yes, that."

John folds him in, all his light and shadow, and soon lips fall against his scalp. "Good." The word hardly breathed into his curling hair. "I think it, too."

* * *

They spend one more week up at the house, sheltered away from the world while their little life continues to grow and change, and the lives around it morph to follow.

It's a ways to the town, but they make the journey a few times for lunch. They do a bit of shopping, too - John had wanted to get some thank-you tokens for Harry and Clara. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson have gifts by the end of it as well. Sherlock finds it all woefully sentimental, but it doesn't stop him from - along with his fair share of derisive snorting, of course - pitching in with commentary, such as when John goes for the erroneous choice of a grey scarf when the inspector would obviously be much more fetching in the burgundy.

Sherlock finds himself arrested while they're browsing among the knitted things anyway by a rack with hats and gloves that seem almost ridiculously small. His brows furrow, and his head tilts. Week 27, week 27... she's about two pounds. She is a large can of soup, a small bag of potatoes. A  _pineapple_.

_Ridiculously_  small.

"And there you were on the verge of telling your Great Aunt Matilda how unnecessary a wool hat would be." He turns to where John is sauntering down the aisle toward him, grinning cheekily.

"John." An expectant glance. "It's the third trimester."

Though Sherlock will perhaps never tell John this, the first thing he noticed about him was his face. One might argue that most everyone noticed people's faces first, but for Sherlock, the distinction was important - if a woman walked in wearing a tattered bracelet around her ankle and an expensive ring, then  _that_  was interesting. A jogger limping on the street and continuing to run despite it; that was of importance. For John, it was his face.

Not because it was beautiful; no, that came later, as it always does when least expected. No, it was the way it morphed and changed as seamlessly as the sun sliding over a river, just as intensely changeable and bright.

On one hand, his face formed the metaphorical pages of the metaphorical open book John was - he had read him in seconds, and usually, he would have been dismissed within an equal span of time. But then John's face had exploded into motion - from the stoic silence of his discomfort, to his confusion in the wrinkles of his forehead, to the tight line at the corner of his mouth in his skepticism. Then his polite eyes, which had gone wide and alight with amazement after those first deductions. And then, most precious, all the various smiles of John Watson.

But the other hand posed the argument that though he may have been easy to read, his heart written all over his honest expressions, one never tired of reading a face that was so endlessly fascinating. So committed in its expression of all the variants of human experience.

And so, as it has done ever since its introduction into his life, John's face now coaxes him along with it into that vast network of feeling and thought in another facet he has yet to try - a sort of... fatherly pride. The thrill of an impending challenge - that, he knows. This is different, in that it comes with soft eyes and fond glances that shine through fear and doubt and uncertainty alike.

"I know," he says, before reaching out and adding the white hat with the embroidered bees to the basket in his hand.

The bees, funnily enough, become something of a theme - they joke about it after taking a picnic to the back fenced-in fields beyond the house, where the broken, shabby line of white-washed wood is almost obscured by the waving points of yellow-green grasses. Everything bears the faint trace of being allowed to happily decay, a salutary neglect, and from the old fence posts and the overgrown trees comes the humming noise of bees that have claimed the land for themselves. They lazily draw themselves out to investigate when John lays down the musty blanket they found in the cupboard and spreads it thick with sandwiches and crisps and fruit.

Sherlock shoos one of the visitors away from his face, stretched out on his back with his elbows propped beneath him. He watches as it circles his head, apparently decides (correctly so) that he is not a flower, and drones off to some far part of the field.

"Did you know that male honeybees are asexually reproduced?"

John chokes around a mouthful of turkey and lettuce. "Um, no. I can honestly say I did not." Next bite safely swallowed, he inquires, "Any more interesting bee facts?"

"Bees can see in color. They remember it, too, even after multiple days. They're strangely cognitively developed, considering their size - they form complex social hierarchies on a purely scientific and objective basis; their maps to food sources are even more complex. They -" he's about to continue, but finds John looking at him oddly. His eyes narrow. "What?"

John doesn't attempt to school his features back from where he's searching Sherlock's face, the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitching wider. "You. You're amazing."

Sherlock smirks, pleased despite himself. "So you've told me."

"I mean it every time." This pulls Sherlock up, and though he returns the gentle kiss that John kneels over the picnic basket to plant on his lips, his eyes are questioning when John leans back.

"Why do bees make me amazing?"

"I never know what you're going to say next. Well, that's a lie - sometimes one look at you and I practically know what you're thinking. But sometimes you say something out of the blue that just - you keep me on my toes." He considers. "It's not the bees that make you amazing, it's what you know about them. That you can not know we go around the sun, then turn around and probably tell me, I don't know, how many bees there are in a hive."

"It varies, actually."

John rolls his eyes. "Point is, it's all these things I don't know about you."

They settle into a warm silence, punctuated by the occasional buzzing bee or the rasp of the brisk wind in the branches of a nearby oak. Down on the lake he can see a family of ducks, trailing across an expanse that reflects the crystalline sky and its golden sun. He closes his eyes briefly. Even as the rest of it fades away, John is still there at his side, reassuring and warm. His eyes open. He sits up, slowly. And, looking at John staring off down the hill to where the land returns to nature, it's just another thing he knows - time, their time, is infinite, like the stretch between two points in a line only now filled and made whole.

"You don't know," he begins, stops. His throat feels heavy with wonder. "But you will yet."

He tells John about the honeybees until the stars come out. And though he's still for hours and cramped beside him on the blanket, inside him Amelia - they can use her name here, now, privately, as something that still belongs only to them - is quiet, not stirring as the day wears into night. Perhaps, and he knows it's even likely, she listens to him, too.

Sometimes she seems to talk back - little reproachful smacks against his insides; maybe a gentler nudge that's almost soft enough to believe he imagined it. Before it was only the visible evidence. Now something touches him from the inside out. Very, very much alive.

Their last night and he's curled around John in a sleep that has been less rare in the past few months, and he is literally kicked awake - and not by John. The breath leaves him in a gust of air, sharp as it whistles past his clenched teeth, and he gazes blearily down. Beside him, John snuffles into wakefulness, rolling slightly and peering at him over his shoulder in the dark.

"Did you just punch me in the back?" he rasps, hovering somewhere between confused and indignant.

Sherlock, once he's got his breath back, loses it all again on a chuckle. "That would be your daughter."

John looks confused before he shrugs back under the covers with a grumbled, "She's yours, too. I'm not at all surprised she worked out how to kick me when she's all the way over there  _inside_  you."

Sherlock's smile widens, glittery in the dark as he leans over, seized by the urge to kiss him. He used to be much better at resisting his urges. As his lips brush rising stubble, he supposes that perhaps not all changes are bad. "I'm sure it wasn't personal," he says apologetically.

"Mmm," his bedmate rumbles. It's the last sound in a long, ebbing silence, the dark pulling at him like a deep and steady tide; soft susurrations of John's breath beside him as they draw in and out, in and out. Utter heaven, in those moments, to drown in it.

When Sherlock breaks at last, it's with a gasp of air. "I'm not ready."

John doesn't stir. He's already fast asleep.

* * *

_(Sunday, March 26th, Week 28)_

They pack all their things into the trunk, and John turns to catch a last glimpse of the lake - grey under the morning, reflecting the trees and the sky until the world is all upside-down as it stretches into the depths. Sherlock climbs into the car and sits with his hands folded over his front. With a lingering look behind him, John follows, stepping into the driver's seat. The door slams, the key is in the ignition, and they're miles away in no time.

"You have your 'I don't want to talk right now' face on," John comments, about half an hour into the journey, under the patter of a steady rain. "But can we talk?"

"We are talking." John glares. "Eyes on the road."

"Anyway," he sighs, nonetheless returning his gaze to the empty stretch of country yawning away ahead of them. Sherlock follows his gaze - boring, endless, nauseating in how adamantly it remains unchanged. He's sick of it. "I wanted to know if you were still having any doubts."

Sherlock stiffens. He opens his mouth to reply and John gets there first. "Because I am." His head whips to the side to look at John anew. Hands loose on the steering wheel, shoulders relaxed. But his jaw is tight. His eyes are strained at the corners. "Please don't look at me like that," he says quietly.

Sherlock blinks. He wasn't aware he was doing any looking that was different from his usual observing. Perhaps John doesn't want him to peer too closely. What does he imagine he'll see? He finds it irritating that John even thinks he can hide.

John sucks in a breath, lets it out again all shaky and uncertain with his eyes fixed on the unceasing road ahead. "I haven't been lying - I am excited for Amelia. I'm thrilled to be a father. I'm thrilled to be a father with you. But I... I just... there's a lot of pressure, I guess, to it all, and I think over these past weeks we forgot... But no, it's more than that."

Sherlock is silent, waiting for him to continue. The air feels charged with the weight of everything John is slipping into it. Perhaps just the electricity of the gathering storm. The rain comes down harder. "We haven't talked about it in a while, but you're not going to stop working cases. I'll stop at the surgery if I have to, but sometimes your cases don't pay, Sherlock. We'll need something like that." He still sounds hesitant, like he's circling, waiting to approach the real issue. He breathes, here it comes. "There's also..." he trails off.

"John."

"I've killed people, Sherlock." The silence sings. "You used to be - are, really - an addict. Harry is - was - an alcoholic. She and Clara are divorced, and now together, but who knows how long that'll last this time. Mrs. Hudson lost her kid, and was married to a man who was executed. For murder. Lestrade's marriage is in shambles. Mycroft... doesn't need explaining. Even Molly -" he stops, and with a self-deprecating snort drops his head and shakes it. "Well, who the hell knows about Molly. The point is, Sherlock, we're bringing a baby, a little girl, into a world of fuck-ups. We investigate fuck-ups for a living, Jesus. If that's our definition of responsible parenting, then I just don't know."

"Is this what opening up is, then?" Sherlock says after the awkward pause. Looking down, he sees that his fingers are shaking. He didn't realize. "Me realizing how little prepared you are? You telling me you think this is a  _mistake_?" The world seems to zoom back in his ears, too close and ringing. The rain is like thunder as it slants across the roof.

John hums a little disapproving noise. "Now I didn't say -"

"You called us all 'fuck-ups,' if I may directly quote. You called me an addict, despite everything I've done to the contrary. You called yourself -" He stops. The shaking is spreading up his arms.

"You know what I meant."

Sherlock cuts him off, voice sharp and cool. "Pull over, I need to stretch my legs."

"But Sher-"

"Pull over."

The aggravated noise gets louder, but John does as asked, slowing to the shoulder. Before the car is even stopped Sherlock is throwing open the door and stalking up the grassy hillside, in the middle of a rain, no less. He doesn't have any idea where he's going. Does it even matter? He'll decide at the top.

Below him, John follows, slamming his door and running around with murder written on his face.

"Wait, Sherlock, just - wait up!"

"Why? So you can tell me more about what a great bloody mess we've made?" It's childish in his own ears, but he doesn't care. He plunges stubbornly upwards, cursing the hill and John and himself. But mostly John. Amelia's gone quiet and motionless. No reassurance there, then.

"No, so I can drag you back into the fucking car before we catch our fucking deaths."

He continues as if John hadn't spoken. "Please, John, by all means. Care to remind me how you felt about, say, the fountain?"

John blanches on the hillside below. "We  _agreed_  never to  _talk_  about the  _fountain_ ," he growls, heaving another step up the steep incline with each heavy word while his feet squelch in the mud.

"First you want to talk, then you don't want to talk. Make up your mind, I despise indecision."

"Would you quit being so dramatic?"

"Says the man who reduces us to a petty band of criminals."

"See! Dramatic! Being... hyperbolic!"

"I suppose that's just what you signed up for."

"I  _definitely_  did not sign up for this."

"Well, neither did I!" Sherlock snaps, whirling around down to face him. He opens his mouth for some more blinding insults, but they both realize what's happening and go still with shock as he teeters, silhouetted against the iron grey of the sky. Sherlock's foot catches on the slippery slope for a lingering second before it goes out from under him on a gush of dirt and rainwater and he goes down, hard.

"Sherlock!"

Wet hands, grasping at his shirt, rolling him fully onto his back. The rain stinging in his eyes as John appears hazily in front of them - none of that old anger, none of that uncertainty. Just concern as he peers into his eyes and then checks back down again.

Sherlock's arms are fully fastened around his middle. John works to pry them away. "I couldn't see how you landed. Side or... stomach?" His voice has gone almost grotesquely clinical. Everything else Sherlock knows he feels - he  _knows_  - is only betrayed in the way he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and that slight, hesitant second before the word. The ringing is back in his ears, and he tries to swallow it down, along with every worry that screams through his veins.  _Amelia_ , they all say, insidious whispers coursing through his very blood to where she rests just so.  _Amelia, Amelia, Amelia_.

"Side." But still.

John's palms are warm over the area. "We should be okay," he deliberates after a moment. His smile is weak, but it's there. "No way to tell for sure, though - we should probably go in as soon as we can."

"John, if anything..."

"I know."

It's all that need be said.

Sherlock tips himself up before he falls to John's shoulder, finding the crook of his neck with his nose and inhaling, eyelids fluttering closed.

"I have doubts, too."

It's muffled in his skin, and John sits him back to ask, "What?"

He repeats himself, and John's eyes go light with understanding. But Sherlock's not done. He struggles to his feet, John at his side. His husband, his family. How he always seems to be found there at his side. "I've expressed my doubts from the beginning. But it wasn't you who decided this, it was me. And I... forgot that. I forgot you were uncertain from the beginning. And all the time -" he trails off, and though his hand is muddy from trying to break his fall he doesn't care, can't care, as he comes to cup his face. "All this time you comforted and encouraged me and I doubt I have once done the same for you."

"Well." John laughs, more a soft exhale. "That just did."

John folds closer, and Sherlock tips his forehead down. "I'd imagine that, seeing as this is the only thing we've ever done and felt even the slightest bit of uncertainty over, we're prone to think we'll be more rubbish at it than usual."

"Sounds a bit arrogant to me."

"Sounds  _like_  me."

They share a hasty grin. "What do you say we get out of this rain and go home?"

Sherlock gestures forward. "Lead the way."

Carefully and arm-in-arm, they make their way back down the slope and set back off for the city, while the rain continues to pour over the vast and empty countryside.

* * *

"Surprise!"

It's the first thing they hear upon opening the door to their flat, and neither of them says it. Rather, the group of people in their living room give the cry as soon as they walk through the entryway with suitcases at their sides.

"Bloody hell," John says in the silence that follows. It makes everyone laugh, at least. Everyone except Sherlock, who is too busy staring them all down and divining who, exactly, is in his home and why, exactly, they are there, especially when he wants nothing more than to have a shower and a nap - urges that in themselves are irritating and only add to his frustration.

"Baby shower," he decides. Wrong sort of shower. He curses the imperfect abilities of his subconscious telepathy, then decides he is even more tired than previously imagined.

"I could have told you that," John mutters, indicating the coffee table strewn with gifts in an intriguing number of shapes and sizes.

"We thought you all would be a bit busy to start thinking about the essentials, and who doesn't love a party, eh?" Greg Lestrade flashes a toothy grin, tipping the wine glass in his hand back and forth. He seems to already be a bit intoxicated. His eyes dart to Sherlock. "None for you though, mate."

Sherlock hums his distaste. "Indeed."

"We thought you would have been home a while ago," Molly explains apologetically, emerging from the small crowd and indicating Greg with a slight, sheepish tilt to her head.

John and Sherlock exchange a glance. "We took a bit of a detour." They'd actually gone to the clinic on the way, waited around to hear that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about and they should just keep an eye on things and Then Sherlock had stopped listening. But after that interminable wait, tired and not exactly in top socializing form, they'd finally been able to make it within the comforting arms of their home.

John rustles up a smile. "But this is nice." And truly, he is touched - Sherlock can see it in the happy way his eyes dance from person to person, bobbing his head in thanks and already moving himself for the drinks.

He glares after him and the way he seems intent on joining in, but Molly intercepts.

"I'll take your coat," she offers, "And then you can sit down there and start opening. We'd just about had it, waiting for you." He mentally changes 'offers' to 'demands,' and then shrugs it off with a sigh.

"What did you do, fall in the Thames?" Harry calls, perched on the arm of the sofa with Clara's arm slung around her waist.

"Not exactly." He takes the coat off and hesitates at Molly's waiting expression. "You don't have to do that you know," he mutters so only she can hear.

Her honest eyes stare fondly up into his own. "I know, and I know pregnancy doesn't make you an invalid, if - if that's what you're saying. I just want to. You're my -" It's her turn to hesitate.

For once, he finds himself able to understand her just as she seems to understand him. "Thank you," he decides, and places his prized coat into her arms.

"My, you're getting big," Mrs. Hudson says as he settles in between her and Clara. Molly returns to her seat on the floor. "What week is this, then?"

"28th," John volunteers, slipping into his chair with a contented sigh. "Not long to go now."

Mrs. Hudson continues talking as Molly surreptitiously begins sliding presents across the table towards a wary-eyed Sherlock. "Oh, it'll be so different, having a little one about this place. Imagine all the things she'll get into."

John laughs. "Yeah, rather like another Sherlock, I'd reckon."

"'She?'" Molly and Clara chorus as one.

Mrs. Hudson's hand flies to her mouth. "Oh, blast, I'd forgotten. I'm sorry, boys, I didn't mean -"

"Easy, Mrs. Hudson," John reassures. "It's not a secret if we'd already told you."

"Still, you probably wanted to share the news yourself. Exciting times, these. Well, I remember -"

They're stopped by Sherlock lifting a cream-colored blanket out of the wrapping, on its front - the periodic table.

When they're done laughing, John puts a hand on Molly's shoulder. "Did you make that?"

She smiles, soft and sweet. "It wasn't hard. And I hear it's best to start 'em early," she laughs, a tinkling sound that has everyone in the room smiling along. Through his tiredness, Sherlock's able to examine the handiwork and see in every line effort; in every stitch hard work and diligence. And he's again struck by how extraordinary she is for how unassuming. Looking at her next to John, the both of them with twin grins as they gesture animatedly about one thing or another, he realizes he's seen the pattern before.

In all these people, really, he thinks, gazing about the room. His friends.

"Thank you, Molly," he says, voice low to disguise the itch at the back of his throat, and folds the blanket into his lap to stay. She catches his eye and her smile goes warmer, but there's nothing more to say, and before long she's passing over the next of the gifts and the chatter has turned to a comfortable thrum.

He gets through a pair of green booties from Sally, who couldn't make it but still sent along with the gift her regards - something that causes John to look softer around the eyes - and some sort of odd chest carrier contraption from Greg that he is patently assured will look ridiculous, but will apparently, "Get the little tyke right into the business," a sentence that makes John go pale until Lestrade can't keep it together and laughs uncontrollably. Those two finished, he's disturbed by a sharp cramping sensation just as he's reaching for the next.

Odd.

He sucks in a sharp breath. "Kicks?" Mrs. Hudson says sympathetically, fingers curling around his shoulder.

No. "Yes," he says anyway, and flashes what John calls his 'normal-people smile.'

He should have known that John would pick up on it. He visibly works to capture his gaze, and Sherlock visibly works to do the opposite, sliding easily past him to focus on anything else. He's had Braxton-Hicks before; this one was probably just particularly strong. Rationally, the thing to do is wait. He tamps down the irritating urge to do something as pointless as worry and instead reaches for the next gift.

Two hours later and he's passed from 'rationality' into 'worried,' and an hour after that he can make the objective observation that he has now gone into something like 'terrified.' Having never experienced this emotion fully - though he has no trouble imagining he would have deleted such a horrific experience in the first place - he can't tell for sure. But this, yes. This is more than anything he'd expected. This is more than four contractions an hour, this is contractions that grow stronger, longer, this is something pressing sharply down and this is  _very, very not right._

He rises. "Excuse me." They don't look up from the takeout they'd ordered a while back. They, at least, with the exception of John, who almost immediately leaps up to follow. Sherlock attempts to escape into the restroom, but John's fingers catch around his wrist, just as another tightening rips through his abdomen. He curls around it, desperately drawing in air as one shoulder hits the wall.

_Oh._  He's abruptly aware of a trickling down his thigh.

"Sherlock?" John's voice has gone curiously high. The hand along his wrist, though, is gentle, and it's what gives Sherlock the courage to lift his head and peer up at him through the hazy fringes of hair in his eyes, despite the fear, despite the pain he knows is coming.

Vaguely he recognizes, as if an observer watching their small exchange in the dusk-yellow light of the hallway from afar, that this is the simultaneous moment where it all ends and everything else begins.

"John," he manages, and curls his arm around himself. "We're just a bit ahead of schedule, but I think I'm going into labor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you were wondering how I was going to possibly finish this within the allotted 15-chapters-and-a-prologue-and-epilogue, hm? That said, we do only have one more ~official chapter left, eek! I'm actually working my hardest to get to it (and the epilogue) before November, considering my NaNoWriMo endeavors would severely delay it and/or be severely delayed by it, so cross those fingers tight! Also, it's the reason this has been very minimally edited; if I even have the right to it, I request more of your patience in that respect while I'm working on churning these out rather than getting them grammatically perfect. Thanks again for reading, and I hope to see you back here soon.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, told you I'd have it before November!
> 
> Particular warnings for Labor and Delivery in a male specimen. We mention some bits of our ~magic anatomy here, so again, if the nitty-gritty of the mpreg factor throws you, might want to get a summary from a friend or something. Additionally, we might not get nitty-gritty enough for some people, so if you have questions about how all this works in my headcanon, please don't be afraid to ask! And though this whole fic obviously deals with something OOC, we'll especially warn for that in this chapter. Blame hormones?
> 
> Additionally - oh god! Last chapter! We've finally made it! There is an epilogue hopefully coming on or before Halloween that will tie up the last of our loose ends, but ahum. This is where we draw to a close, my friends. Thanks to everyone who has been sticking with this. You all are just angels; thank you so, so much for seeing me through.

_(Tuesday, March 28th - the present)_

It's Tuesday, wet and grey. Morning.

Steady drip of the IV.  _Drip, drip_. A nurse outside guides her patient down the hall, hand on paper-thin cotton robe. Soft murmurs that swell as they pass, fading as they go. In the room the dim white light from between the stiff blinds. Blinding in his gaze. He turns his face away.

Somewhere outside, a sharp cry crawls out of the quiet, wailing and distraught before time draws it back into silence. A baby.

_Drip, drip, drip._

His eyelids rasp spider-soft over the pillow as they falter shut; as with a click and a flicker the film begins to play, memory rolling out on its reel from the dark until he cannot escape it.

 

 

_(33 hours earlier)_

John's face is all shock and exhilaration and fear, swirling like a hurricane over his face until it blows suddenly into calm, the eye of the storm. His voice doesn't shake when he asks, "You're sure?"

Sherlock, on the other hand, is anything but calm. "Of course I'm bloody sure, I'm Sherlock Holmes." He hisses out a sharp breath through his teeth.

John gives a little laugh, one that stops them both short as the visible crack in his composure. This isn't funny. It can't be funny. It is, because it's them and her and  _of fucking course_ this would happen; of course she would be early to greet them; of course it has danger written all over it as in permanent ink; of course, of course, of course of course of course of course ofcourseofcourseof-

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sucks in another wrenching inhale, attention zapping back to John's face where it's gone yellow under the lights, outlining every gaunt line mapped across his forehead, every groove in his cheeks, twisting at the corners of his nervous lips. A tongue darts out across the bottom, leaving it sticky and wet. Sherlock aches for its comfort, but now is not the time. He works to focus, the warm hand on his cheek eventually guiding his eyes up as well till they lock furious and fast.

For a moment they say nothing - quiet, Sherlock drinks in the indigo sea; John probes the depthless black of his pupils and finds the peace of darkness. Their last, shared moment. A wealth of time exchanged in those bare seconds, as if they had stepped out into the cold and wandered an empty city, their city, where the buildings rose like memory and the past ran along the cobbled paths toward their future, toward the gates, where that last embrace was had, huddled beneath a streetlamp and silent as snowfall.

But winter has passed.

_Ready?_

No spoken words, not for them, nothing visible in their foggy breath. It's enough. It has always been, it shall always be. Till death, till the very end of the universe itself, till no one existed to remember what it had meant and if it had ever meant anything at all ( _it will, it always will)_.

And at last, after all the hesitation, as the moment arrives,

_Yes._

In the living room again, Sherlock explains much more bluntly:

"I'm in premature labor. John and I are going to the hospital now."

Five pairs of eyes go wider than saucers before the room explodes into action - strangely, he thinks, a sort of organized chaos, as Harry immediately takes charge and everyone falls into place. It couldn't have been better were it planned.

"Mrs. H, you'll - yeah, stay, get the flat ready, that's good. Molly - or John - if you have any ins with medical folk, best get on that. Clara and I are on food and watch duty at the hospital." She looks around, nodding to herself as the room transforms, fluid with movement and conversation as the thrill begins its low, intense hum.

"I've got the car," interjects Lestrade, moving to get his coat. There's a crooked smile on his face as he adds, "With sirens."

Harry grins back. "Excellent." A frown appears just as quickly as the smile had. "John?"

When he turns to look, John's unable to disguise the watering in his eyes. Sherlock's eyebrows dart up in surprise - for all his smiles and effusive "brilliant!"s, he's not often given to large displays of emotion. He suffers Sherlock's (apparently) irritating mannerisms with a put-out sigh and the occasional yell, but anything else is extravagant. His therapist, if he recalls correctly, could hardly coax anything from him. And now, of all times, when there's so much to be done, he's already on the brink of tears?

"Just..." he says quietly, and, faltering, tries again. "...You."

Sherlock looks back at their gathered few, and instead of reading the  _just had sex_  in Harry and Clara, or  _seeing his kids tomorrow_  in Lestrade, he finds the other signs, noting what John would be likely to see - Molly's pulling her hair up and setting immediately to typing on her phone, Greg's searching frantically for his keys, Mrs. Hudson's bundling everyone away into their jackets and on the verge of excited tears herself.

_They care_ , is the simple deduction.

What is not simple is the way it seems to make John feel - and, abruptly, the way it causes some unexpected tightness to uncurl within his own throat, stealing his breath. Sherlock's been alone for quite some time. It wasn't bad. But this - they look up at his silence, kind eyes, such dangerous, dangerous affection - well, he'll need more data.

Another clenching bares down on him and his eyes slam shut with the force of it. No pain, just a building pressure. And this was only the start. When the pain does come, he won't be afraid of it. He's never feared pain. This time, he simply fears what it means. What that early, abrasive slide will stand for. What its bloodied, exhausted result will be.

When he opens his eyes again, the motion has all stopped in the room, concern radiating towards him in one unstoppable wave.

He bristles. Perhaps he will not enjoy the coddling. "What?" he snaps, a little louder than even on those worst days when the cases are pitifully easy and John is mad at him for no good reason and Mrs. Hudson refuses to bring him tea. This, and for once he and the world would probably be in agreement, is worse than that.

As a result, there's a collective flinch. Greg and John exchange a look. Working to hide an obvious unease beneath a brave smile, the detective inspector nods.

"Yeah, hospital. Now."

 

 

Sherlock's hands, where they're curled in his lap, seem unnaturally large. Because in the many long hours he's been waiting in this hospital, he's started thinking about the small things - her tiny feet and her own tiny hands, her weight. Lungs and lips, eyes and heart. And then there's the hypothetical margins by which they make it through unscathed. The likelihood of escaping infection, the hope for an easy road ahead, and the chances of success, when all is said and done.

They are small, yes - but not to him. Not in the way that matters.

He thinks about how it might have ended, how it might still end if there are merciful gods or chances at luck. Across his mind stream the photos of a baby, indigo-eyed, blinking up from a crib and stretching her ten fingers up towards him. Those same eyes in a toddler, and a child, perhaps grinning around an absence of teeth at the stories John tells her about a mad detective, or maybe narrowed in concentration as she fiddles on the violin. Mycroft would certainly attempt to draw her to the piano, but she'll be clever; recognize the superiority of a bow in her hand. Yes, clever, stun them all with her heart and her brain all at once, make it to university and beyond and never once make them doubt any of it. In a perfect world, whatever that meant.

For maybe she'll be too clever. Maybe she'll ask all the right questions and receive all the wrong answers. Maybe she will hate them as he hated his father, end up on that downward trajectory, the open-ended cycle of nothing when her world becomes too boring and trite. Need rescuing.

Maybe she will be him.

Sherlock profoundly does not care. Prediction of the future is ludicrous. He simply wants her to  _be_.

And it is the biggest thing, the only thing, that matters now in these final hours.

He lifts his head to see John paused in the doorway. Just watching.

Slowly, he sets down the cup of coffee  _cheap hazelnut creamer no black low-fat recycled cardboard_  and steps up to where Sherlock's perched at the edge of the bed, hands now stuffed into the bedsheets _low thread count cotton polyester washed this morning once blue now grey_ and his knuckles going white. Strong, soft, John's darker skin _more melanin variety of genes external factors take note_  threads over his own, hands sliding up his arms  _texture-slurry callous trigger finger_  until they dive under, a stiff hug, an awkward angle.

"Sherlock," he thinks John calls, distantly  _25db 100hz_.

And again.

The lights are too bright, everything has turned filmy and all at once crystal in its clarity, like the image on a microscope before it swims into terrible focus.

_Two midwives one doctor Dr. Lee cup of tea in her hand lemon no sugar_ The fall on the hillside what if that triggered it how can they not  _Map: Unit B sub-block NICU three floors down side hallway ICU on-call noise noise noise_  Not my fault happenstance it happens  _three expecting mothers one with twins also an expecting father_ She must be okay there is no _contraction squeeze breathe 75 seconds four minutes of separation count still in active labor_ how long until we know how long until the

"Sherlock."

_end?_

It takes every unit of strength to meet his eyes.

"Come on," John says at last. His voice, in the absence of anything else, is level and sure. "Up with you."

After a moment's hesitation, he obeys, rocking upward onto unsteady feet. John's hands slide back down to curl protectively over his hips, and for a moment, he just holds them there. Anchored to the ground, anchored to John, he slowly regains equilibrium.

Sherlock inhales around a punishing squeeze,  _count one...two...three..._ and some time later, exhales.

Eyes still fixed on his face, John tips his head at last, nodding a little. "One last chase?"

Despite himself, he huffs a laugh; relishes the fleeting smile that appears on John's face, too. "Of course."

"How long are they now?" John asks next, as by unspoken agreement they turn for the hallway, Sherlock leaning against his arm. Slowly, their trudge begins.

"Four minutes." Pausing against the wall with a grimace, staring into the nothing of the hallway, he surfaces to focus back on John. He gives a rueful smile. "Three and a half."

When they'd arrived, nearly seven hours ago now, it'd been about ten minutes. They'd played the waiting game, though, cycling through techs that argued about postponing labor, about c-sections, about steroids and antibiotics and epidurals and any manner of decidedly unimportant things, fretting and spouting utter nonsense until Sherlock had begun to snap at his nurses for the lack of any valuable information and John was too tired to stop him.

Miraculously, it had led to them being issued fit for more waiting - just waiting elsewhere. They'd been exiled here, a small ward with only a few other people waiting their turn to welcome their new lives, and the quiet had left Sherlock too much time to do nothing. Too much time in his head.

Funny, he thinks, sliding his gaze to the man next to him, how John senses these things, his skills of observation be damned. It's something he just seems to know about Sherlock, just one among the hundreds of little things he's wanted to learn and kept safe in his own mind palace. Maybe his own mind-studio apartment, but the thought was there. It's this sense, he knows, that prompts John to enter and bring him what he loves - unpredictability. Activity. Conductibility. He comes not to take his mind off all those other minutiae, but to focus him, to guide him to the trip and it's all Sherlock's ever needed and all he's ever wanted at that.

John nods, gesturing ahead. They start forward once more, taking care to go slowly, but determinedly winding their way down the corridors and pacing all the long steps on their way back to where they began. John weights their steps with words, a low murmur of reassurance, sighed into his ear or laughed in a story of some sort. He's coping himself, or trying to, the polite silence of his normal demeanor vanishing beneath this aimless stream. And really, he's waiting, too. So Sherlock, though a fan of rapid exclamations, chooses silence, silence until he doesn't.

"What if she dies?"

John chokes on air, stopping dead in the middle of the crowded hallway. But his fingernails dig into his arm, harsh and intent, as he turns Sherlock to face him. His eyes are watering, but he's making sure that Sherlock sees, putting another hand under his chin and drawing him close.

It's suddenly all too much. The stress of the last few hours, the tension, the pain in John's eyes and the uncertainty grooved into the troubled lines of his face. And he's staring into the eyes of the near future, the far future, as far down as he is able to see and all the possibilities, every probability and every factor, drain down to only those that leave them still in this place in a year, in ten, in twenty - John's tired eyes and his grieving heart, while Sherlock can think only of how horrifying it would be...

_To go back, after all that we have changed, is unthinkable._

John, seemingly on the verdict of a thunderstorm, goes quiet. He swallows. Then his hands come up, and with the delicacy of deep pain he crushes him into an embrace, desperate hands in his hair and face falling into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He's shorter than Sherlock, and Sherlock's quite round, but it doesn't matter, not then - it fits. It fits. John in his life, John in his arms. This new life. It's theirs and it is still thorny and obtrusive as it wedges into the perfectly-shaped circle of Sherlock's old life - but here their edges dissolve; merge into one another. John holds him and he holds John and inside him, perhaps too early, perhaps on the brink of a destruction that will bring them down with it, is the evidence of that.

"Don't even think that," John croaks.

Sherlock huffs a grim laugh. Presses an afterthought of a kiss into the nape of his neck, nuzzling into the soft hair before he can stop himself. "I can't not think," he confesses, eyes squeezing tightly shut against the threat of that dark, parallel world.

John's quiet, the both of them leaning back into the wall. Sherlock's legs are trembling and his breath comes more quickly - the contractions are growing more frequent. Any moment now, they'll be called back, and then it all really begins. He squeezes John tighter, holding him as desperately as he might wish, however impossible, to hold on to these precious last seconds.

"80% probability of survival," John whispers at length. "And only 34% with continued disability."

He hears the words as Dr. Lee had said them only hours before, tugging the gown back down around his ankles and straightening with her chart in hand. He closes his eyes; allows that same steady stream of words to beckon him - them - down again.

"What if she's autistic, Sherlock? What if she has cerebral palsy? Her lungs might not work properly. Her IQ might be low." He pulls back up to meet his eyes, but the gaze is soft. "Seven, eight months ago you would have scoffed at all of this." The hand at his side flutters up, gestures uselessly around their heads. "But you did this, love. I may have jumped on board, but this was all you in the beginning."

Their foreheads meet; he stares across into John's eyes, unblinking.

Those eyelids flicker, and his gaze drops, while of all things a smile begins to tug at his lips. "Point is, we've been 'what-if'ing it since this thing began. 'What if I never get pregnant?' 'What if I do?' 'What if John hates me?'"

Sherlock grins around a gasp, fingers tightening around John's shoulders. "You could never hate me."

"Have you seen you?"

"That is precisely my point."

" _Point is_ , Sherlock," he continues again, hitching his arms at his sides and supporting him through the tremors that begin to ripple through his muscles with intent, "We can't predict the future."

Sherlock hums, a little startled sound. "I was just thinking that." For some reason, he's speaking in whispers.

John answers just as soft. "Then why are you afraid?" he inquires gently.

He hesitates, but the answer is already there. "Because I don't  _know_."

And neither does anyone else. The surgeons don't know. The midwives don't know. All the degrees and all the years of their worthless studying have produced nothing, not for him. They stand stupid as sheep around his bed and its scratchy sheets, psuedo-professionals that tell him that they have no idea why this is happening or what the results will be. There has never been, nor will be, any certainty, they say with their apathetic eyes, as if it isn't killing him inside to think about it, as if his whole world isn't built on the basic ability to know and understand and that they are taking its foundations from him in the worst way possible. As if he's not a father, and as if it isn't his daughter they're talking about, who might not live to see the morning.

"I've always admired clinical detachment. How can you focus, if you're too busy... emoting. Once I told you that crying by the bedsides of your patients wouldn't change anything. It's still true. Nothing will change." His breath shudders in, shudders out.

"But it's different when it's you," John finishes quietly. Their gazes lock.

"Is that selfish?"

"You've never cared before."

They exchange a humorless smile. It's an infinite loop, an unanswerable question. Perhaps they'll never know. To think of it reminds him, and a new pain etches itself slowly across his features. It's one that all their medications can't help, one that's difficult to put into words, but he tries - "I just want them to know what to do. It's their  _job_. And I, I want to know - I want to be able to know that she'll be... she'll be..."

He can see the fracture in John's eyes, and subconsciously knows to lean in, to take the broken-hearted kiss that's coming. The phrase hovers, the meaning sinks in, their lips meet and part again. A hiss of air rattles across his cheek. And then... John laughs. "Once you didn't know that the earth went around the sun."

Sherlock laughs, too. Something makes it sound thick in his throat. "I do now." He looks up, not at all surprised to see that there are tears on John's face. His hand comes up, trembling, to glide beneath his eyes. "Is that the point, then?" he murmurs, watching his fingers trace liquid lines across John's skin. "That one day I'll know and that's that?"

John noses along the line of his palm. "I suppose." His exhale is tickly. "I taught you that, you know." He is not talking about the solar system.

He huffs. "And that you'll be here with me, to do - for all of it; that's a point, too?"

These things he knows.

Dr. Lee, her heels announcing every step, is drawing closer down the hallway. He's almost certainly ready for the final stage, for the beginning of the end - his legs are trembling now with the simple effort of standing. Sweat has broken out along his temples, and he'd really like nothing more than to just get it over with. But he takes their last few seconds to affirm their most important truth, the one that will see them through.

He doesn't let John answer, instead placing John's hands over his stomach and lacing their fingers tightly together. Connected, in all the ways that matter. "I always knew it was," he murmurs, into the final meeting of their lips. Sherlock still tastes sorrow on his tongue.

 

 

He shivers, the tightening crawling up through his abdomen in spasms, fanning out before it bears down again. He breathes through it, focusing on the careful intake of air and the shaking pulse of it as it leaves.

"That's it, love," John murmurs, hand inching back over his arm. Sherlock throws a half-hearted glare over his shoulder, head lolling back onto the pillows.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about. It's not  _that_ bad," he grumbles, nevertheless sighing as he enters the grace period.

John rolls his eyes. "So far." They wait out the break in silence, the hospital clicks and whistles of machinery and the soft cessura of John's hand over his skin the only sounds. A minute in, his eyebrows crease. "Are you sure you don't want any meds? It's not too late..."

"I'll be -  _ah!_  - fine," he grits, as the contraction strikes, rolling powerfully down through the muscles of his uterus, expanding the cervix, closing the rectal sphincter, widening the meet of vaginal aperture and anus. All of these ridiculous, ridiculous things just so he can bring a life into the world.

Humans are ridiculous. They go to all this trouble, only to get more trouble out of it - caring for something, another utterly helpless being, out of pocket, out of time, out of energy. And actually caring for it, caring in the sense of fretting after its well-being, 'wanting the best' for it, loving it. Loving it till they're just as helpless themselves.

John's hand on his shoulder, connected to his steady arms, steady stance,  _foundational_ , reminds him yet again that something so base as love has not made him weak.

At the foot of the bed, braced between his legs, Dr. Lee hums her approval. "You're entering the transition period, Mr. Holmes. Get ready - this isn't going to be easy."

John crouches at his side, meeting his eyes, and abruptly it is only the time of them, there, alone in that room, sharing a goal that is one and the same. "What do you need?"

Sherlock scoffs, laughing it off, even as something clenches down in fear inside him, cold and unrepentant.

But John watches, still, and when he speaks he is entirely serious. "Do you think I can't tell when you're scared?" he asks quietly, in the stillness of before.

"Of course you can't, you -"

John inclines his head.

Sherlock's aware of his lips parting, aware of the sound that doesn't emerge. In the distant way that he's incessantly aware of John, he notes sweat on his brow, can almost taste his pulse, feels his presence like a second skin. Flesh and blood and man. But in the up-close, in the personal, in the way he wears John on his sleeve and on his mind and on his soul, should such a thing exist - he feels his own fear crashing like waves, but unlike Sherlock, it crashes around something solid: like a tree, like a dam, like the whole goddamn forest, holding away the storm and cradling him inside it. John is at once the howling and its eye, and he is whatever Sherlock needs him to be and everything he never knew was needed at all. He can't imagine doing this with anyone else.

Of course he can tell.

He shakes his head, once.

John leans in, palms braced around his upper arms. "I know you."

He can't resist. "Biblically?" The snark is worth the breath it costs him, as he's seized by another contraction.

John smiles briefly, but sobers. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I've seen the faces you make when you come. I've seen you spent and flushed and goddamn near ruined. But Sherlock..." Here he leans in, presses his lips to Sherlock's temple for a brief, hard second, as if everything he says can fuse into his very skin at all their desperate points of contact. "I've seen you all the other times, too. Saw you at Barts, do you remember?"

Of course he remembers. His abdomen ripples, and he cries out unexpectedly.

"Saw you nearly take that pill, you idiot."

Sherlock laughs on a huff. "You called me," a breath, "an idiot then, too."

John smiles. "Suppose I did." His hand goes back to clamping down tight around his fingers while the other kneads his shoulder. "Every crime scene since, every cold and flu, every vacation, every kiss, and now this. I saw you cry when you heard our little girl's heartbeat. I saw you convince me, every step of the way, that this was worth it. I believed you. God, I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes, and I believe in us, and I believe in her."

This time, Sherlock doesn't hesitate. His fingers fan out, squeeze down around John's. Rather than feel vulnerable for all that John has seen in him - he looks up, catches his grin and shares it - he is stronger. He nods. He is ready.

 

 

They'd discussed it - no pain meds. No epidural. No risks whatsoever. But god, the  _pain_  -

A drop of sweat trails down over his cheek. John kisses it away, nose lingering in the dip of his eye socket. It's a... pleasant distraction.

 

 

"Just breathe. Just breathe. Shh, there. Just breathe."

He does, great and gasping, and, for the first time in his life, tries not to think at all. He feels his resolve begin to tremble.

 

 

Hours later, "It's taking too long," he gasps out, neck arching, his skin gone all splotched and red as his body is wracked with tremors. He glistens under the hospital lights, coated in perspiration, drowning in it, drowning in the suffocating feeling of the compression of his lungs, drowning in the weight screaming against his lower back, in the gravity of the thoughts, too, that press themselves around him without fail.

The doctors confer in low murmurs. The lights haze in and out. Distantly, someone shouts. He hazes in and out. In, out. Out.

 

 

"Sherlock, you've got to keep trying. C'mon, Sherlock. There's a - that's it, love, there."

Complications, they're saying. She's not turned right.

"You brilliant thing, we'll see this through - steady, good. Just a bit more, I promise."

It's been hours. The afternoon wanes with their chances.

The words just join the steady stream.

 

 

John looks at him during one pause, breathing heavily himself, and his mouth trembles around a watery smile while a gentle hand strokes through the runnels of sweat on his forehead. "You can't be giving up."

He closes his eyes... the temptation is there and insidious...

But open and wide and impossibly big in his head. That is what John is.

He is that part of the creation inside of him. The part that will do whatever it takes. The part he would not share with just anyone. Because Sherlock is destructive; he consumes, he owns, and it took a force equal and opposite to bring them here. Here, to where this small, shared thing of theirs is reaching for life with every heave of his chest, every involuntary flex of his muscles and every willing moment of pain endured for the sake of it. Of her.

Is it worth it?

John still smiles at him, bright and impossible; murmurs some passing word of encouragement that doesn't mean as much as his smile.

Yes.

Because if John is that, is that open-wide-big-impossible thing, then he has done some good, he suspects, in sending him down through all the ages of the universe. Part of him will persist when he is gone. The world better for it.

Ludicrous, to want it. Ridiculous to not. And he has felt it for these long months, this knitting together of their edges, all their chances of separation vanishing as easily as the sun beyond the horizon at night, when all is said and done.  _I will not lose you. Here is my evidence_.

Amelia Jean Holmes-Watson.

"I love you."

They are all just chemicals at heart, and Sherlock is as much scientist as detective - he has solved it, what those chemicals mean. That greatest mystery of all.

His eyes fly open to focus on John, "Push," commands his doctor, and he does.

 

 

"Oh- God," he groans, the rhythmic flex gone all off-tempo and unfamiliar. Something is different, it's fast now, insistent, and he's stretched thin and aching and shaking, shaking, shaking all over.

"Just a bit more," Dr. Lee calls, just as John says, "That's her head, her head, Sherlock, oh my Christ, her face, she's -"

"Pant for me, Mr. Holmes. Gentle, this time."

"- absolutely beautiful. That's it. God, you're brilliant, you're fantastic..."

"Breathe, and - one, two, and push  _now._ "

"...and I love you so,"

"One more!"

"So much."

His neck goes limp, his spine unfurls from its rigid arch, as his final push sends the last of Amelia's body slipping away from him.

Silence.

He rockets upward, face a mess of sweat and plastered hair and snarls, " _Make_  her  _breathe_."

Because his baby isn't crying. And when he looks at the foot of the bed, when he first sees what alien thing has been such a bewildering part of him through all the weeks of the past, the one he's been speaking to and shushing and loving for what feels like a lifetime, she's not even breathing. "Make her breathe!" he shouts again, half-mad, John's grip on his shoulder the only thing keeping him in the bed. There's a ringing in his ears, and he can hardly see straight, as they towel her off. Someone is calling a resuscitation team while the others try to stimulate her, touching her feet and rubbing her back. She looks grey, grey, much too grey, all the color suddenly draining from his life in that simple observation.

No, he cannot be detached in this.

_Why would she still be upset?_  Rachel. Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter. The names come ringing back from his indexes with devastating clarity. Once, their first night, he'd asked, and only now does he receive his answer. He thinks he is going to be sick.

John's arm pulls him abruptly into focus, as he sags against him, pulling them together with all the ferocity of unobstructed terror. Their hearts beat together, he can feel it, the pulse of one into the other - and he wishes he'd been enough for her, too, in sharing life and giving his own. He breathes deeply, knowing they are connected still, knowing that, perhaps, it will be enough. She will adjust, she will breathe, she will... she will...

"No!" The voice is inhuman and howling and he thinks it is his own. John is pale as death beside him.

The NICU team arrives. They say something to John, who nods. Sherlock can't seem to hear, can't seem to do anything but watch as they begin resuscitation; equipment he might have once known the names of but now doesn't care about, can't care about, it's only her at the end of the bed as the balloon inflates and her chest rises and falls under careful fingers.

He feels the rippling of the afterbirth. He and his daughter are only inches apart, but in moments, they will be completely detached. Separated forever.

Unthinkable.

He inhales, one last time, and next to him John does, too. They breathe, slow and deep, the universe slows and narrows and seems to tremble on the brink -

A gasp.

Tiny, small, infinitesimal - but it is there, and the sound is from their daughter. Color blooms across his skin, swatches of uneven pink, and she snuffles, a wheezy second breath, stuttered and uncertain, before her mouth opens and she cries.

Sherlock's head falls back against the bed, the last expulsion of the afterbirth and Amelia's cry leaving him nothing to do but give in to the exhaustion that arises and overtakes. He closes his eyes, but they flicker open again, unable to look away when she's moving, albeit stiff and confused, but _moving_ , little flexings of her balled fists and hiccups as her doctors move around her with intent. Next to him, John is laughing with relief, and it's only for him that he's able to tear himself away and look. There are more tears mixed with his smile, but it's not the grieving eyes he'd feared before - this is a look of bottled sunlight. This is complete and ecstatic joy, unconquerable and fierce, and Sherlock can't help the tired smile that stretches across his chapped lips.

John leans in and kisses it off his face. Murmurs, "I've never been so scared."

The quiet confession of the soldier. They've been running all their lives, and not once has his heart every pounded so drastically against his chest. He sees it in Sherlock's eyes so he says it. The knowledge that they who have faced criminals were almost razed to nothing by an infant is as ruining as it is exhilarating.

"It would have been worse without you. John -" he says, and his voice catches, some heinous lump crowding out the words in his throat.

John nods. He doesn't have to speak.

All of it. It all would have been worse. It all would have been impossible.

The point is, he decides at last, that they can only do this together.

John senses his unspoken request and goes to Dr. Lee at the end of the bed, speaking softly. Sherlock watches as carefully, she helps him clamp and cut the umbilical cord, a look of unexpected shock on his face that makes the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch. Then she's ushering Amelia into his arms. The breath punches out of him as John turns back, his faced fixed not on Sherlock but on the object he cradles so tentatively. On the person. The lines of his face are slack, he looks young and awed as he stares into the circle of his gentle embrace.

Stepping up to the side of the bed, he sits by Sherlock's shoulder. He strains to a better sitting position, wanting to see her up close for the first time. His heart is beating unnaturally fast, he notes, but he's not at all surprised.

Typical parent response. Survival of the species. That same old tune.

John's bouncing her slightly, just rocking her as he stares, almost absently, at her still-sniffling face. "Hello there, Amelia." He works to control his expression, but Sherlock can see the tears building behind it, just as he's always been able to read John. This time, though, he understands. "Dad's got you."

Sherlock leans against John's elbow, nosing into the warm skin and inhaling. Just as it always has, the scent floods his nostrils and takes him home. Now, mixed with something new.

"Am I ever going to get to hold my daughter?" Sherlock mumbles, after a few moments have passed.

John huffs. "Give us a minute," he says, but it isn't cross. Gently, he begins to transition her over. Sherlock eyes her with apprehension, sudden and unexpected. Children, infants... they were not typically...

"Sherlock." John prompts. His eyes snap up. There's an amused smile on his face, but his look is the gentle blue of the ocean, dark and calm. "You've been holding her for months."

He'd argue that it's not the same, not the same at all, but somehow, looking down at her, it's still reassuring. He nods, the little fluttering of anticipation in his belly unfurling, and with careful hands John sets her down into his positioned arms.

She's so light. It's the first thing he notes. Less than a kilo, he'd estimate, as her blotchy, pinched face stares up at him through narrowed slits of watery eyes. Almost too fragile to contemplate, like he's cupping all the most dangerous reactants together in his hands. As if this all could blow up in his face at any moment, vanish, like it was a mistake - he'd never meant for this life to happen. But it did.

He can feel her heartbeat through her skin.

He inhales raggedly, coughing around an embarrassed laugh at the sound that escapes him. He mimics what John was doing earlier, the little half bounce-rock, and watches, utterly rapt, as she quiets. The uncertain movements of her hands fold away, resting on her front, and the sharp little cries drain down into silence.

What can he say to her? What will his first words be? Something not inane, something not repetitive, something not boring and typical - what should welcome her to the sound of his voice? She can't even understand, but for some reason, it  _matters_ , it's important...

Unexpectedly, her eyes open, and she squints up at his face.

Oh. Blue. Blue like John's.

"Life is infinitely strange, stranger than anything that any man could imagine," he whispers, reverent, a hand coming up to brush at the sparse, damp curls on the top of her head. "I could never have thought that the mundane could be so extraordinary, but you've shown me... there is nothing so, so wonderful as the commonplace. Welcome to it, Amelia. To this strange life." He keeps her name soft on his tongue, like a prayer. "Welcome to life."

John's lips press against his temple, his head then resting on his own as they stare down at their daughter. "That was beautiful."

"Oh, shut up."

John curls a hand around his arm and squeezes. "Meant it." Sherlock's eyes trail over her near-translucent skin, committing to a new room in his palace every detail of her that can possibly be memorized, from the raspy flutter of her eyelashes to the way her fingers stretch out towards his face, splayed and intent. John nudges her palm with an index finger and she curls around it, held surprisingly tight and certain in her grasp. He shakes it slowly up and down, and laughs at the formal introduction. They fall more closely together, too enraptured or spent to even imagine beyond the moment.

But the NICU team is getting anxious - John tells him they'll want to keep her incubated for a few days, just in case. She's not likely to be out of the woods yet, and there are still tests to be run in the myriad. He holds her, and he wishes she could be safe there and protected, in the strength of his embrace.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"I fear I may not be able to let go."

He breathes a laugh. "I know. You have a few minutes. Take it easy." They ruminate in silence, then he adds, "We get to keep her, isn't that odd?"

"No." Sherlock turns his face to the side, looking at John with a studious eye. He feels grossly, disgustingly, utterly human, as if it had stolen over his skin and covered him in a film while he wasn't watching, wasn't aware. But Sherlock is always watching and aware. He'd let this happen. Let himself be stolen away.

"You stole me," he says, as they're leaning against one another. He waits, prompting.

"I know," he says simply. A crooked grin jumps to his features. "And she stole us away entirely. Sounds like a crime to me. Good thing we're a family of detectives."

Sherlock's eyes drop back to where their hands are clasped, each cradling the child between them. Their child. He smiles, and he imagines, fancifully, that it now shares just that other half of John's warmth and brilliance. If it does, then he supposes he has done enough. "Only one in the world."

 

 

_(the present)_

The quiet knock on the doorframe interrupts his thoughts. The nurse and her patient have long passed, and the room and hallway outside are still and dark. Something irrelevant is playing softly on the television. He reaches for the remote, and the screen flickers before going dark. He turns to look.

Faces he knows well, lives he's grown to be a part of - Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Harry and Clara. Molly. Mycroft. All of them grouped about the doorway, expectant and strangely eager. So eager to share his life, and he might never understand it. But the mystery is there. Sherlock will do his best to solve it, as long as it takes.

In front of them all is John, and nesting securely in his arms, Amelia. His eyes flicker up from her face and lock with Sherlock's. They share some unnamed, private thing, and the corner of his mouth quirks.

John takes a step forward, raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock extends a hand. His family comes home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I allowed to get a bit misty-eyed over finishing a multi-chap? Yes? Ha, I hope you all enjoyed our end. Reminder that an epilogue is coming, and hopefully coming soon. But just so many thanks for seeing us to the finale. Much love!


	17. epilogue

John and Sherlock were never really  _normal_...

 

 

"I imagined I'd find you down here."

Sherlock doesn't move from his place on the floor by the incubator. Behind him, feet tread closer, soft and unhurried on the linoleum. They're accompanied by a tapping noise, distinct and well-remembered from all the days it has climbed the floors at Baker Street beside its owner. The fabric of an expensive suit ruffles as Mycroft descends to sit next to him, awkwardly folding into his place on the ground.

They sit in silence for a moment, half-listening to the monitors, to each other's breathing.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asks after a time.

"It's my understanding he went home some hours ago to shower and change. He wants everyone to visit tomorrow morning, I've been told."

His brother snorts. "You're here a bit early, then."

Beside him, Mycroft's shoulders lift in a thin shrug. "I'm an uncle now. I must..." he hesitates, "care."

"Haven't you always?" He turns and looks at his brother, really looks. Observes, as is his job. Worry lines vanishing into smooth skin as Mycroft returns his gaze. "John says it's because you do care. That you interfere because it's the only way I'll 'let you in.'"

Mycroft says nothing. Sherlock's head falls to the side, and he shakes it, a humorless smile on his features.

"I did this, you know."

The smile disappears. A frown jumps up to take its place. "What?"

His brother turns to face him, and Sherlock blinks in surprise. Because the smile etched there isn't the self-aggrandizing, postured little simper he wears in nearly all their dealings. There is something genuine in the strange vulnerability of Mycroft Holmes in that moment. Sherlock knows faked vulnerability when he sees it. This... this is...

"When you were born, Mummy told me that my job was to always take care of you. So at night, for the first few weeks after you were born, I would sit by your cradle and tell you stories. Just to let you know that someone was there. Would always be there." He sighs, a hand stroking restlessly down his thigh. "When Father left and Mummy sort of... vanished in her grief, for that time, that was what I did. And when you were a mess at university, I came and got you out. And I made sure John was right for you. I tested him. And I tested you."

"I never asked for your help, Mycroft."

He purses his lips. "No, you didn't. But I gave it to you anyway."

"Out of  _duty_."

"Isn't duty some form of - of love?"

Above their heads, Amelia starts to whine. Sherlock's on his feet in seconds, opening the latches on the glass windows and sliding a hand through, a shushing sound on his lips. With a practiced ease, her fingers latch around his, soft baby-pink skin on pale ivory. She'd had some jaundice, but after nearly two weeks changing feeding habits and with a bit of phototherapy, the sallow tint to her skin was at last beginning to fade. The grey of her beginnings hadn't returned, either, but she's still being monitored for brain damage after that initial scare. The blood tests don't prove anything, nor any of their other tests.

Only time will tell, it seems. But with any luck, they'll get to go home tomorrow. Oh, how he longs to take her home, and really  _begin_.

"Home, Amelia," he murmurs, wiggling his fingers.  _Distal, middle, proximal phalanges_. Her grip, surprisingly strong, tightens. He squeezes gently back.

"Should you be doing that?"

His eyes flicker away from his infant's face, stare at some irrelevant piece of floor where the tile is chipped just at the top. "It's not a matter of 'should' or 'should not.'" He turns back, but his hand stays in place. He will not let go. "If you're doing it because you have to, it's different than doing it because there is nothing else you can do. Duty is a cage. Love is still... still a sort of... boundary, but only because it's better behind it. It's not - it's not something I can explain," he sighs, frustrated with his inability to, for once, speak coherently on a subject. This has never been his area. And how to make Mycroft, of all people, understand, when he's only just beginning to really  _get it_  himself?

But looking at his brother again, dragging his eyes up from the floor to rest hopelessly on his face, he wonders if perhaps they are not so different after all.

"Could I -"

He hesitates, a fraction of a second where he wonders - and then nods. Mycroft is equally hesitant, shuffling in a way he never does, not when it's anyone but the two of them. Sherlock squeezes once more, then withdraws his hand. The opening yawns. Amelia's squinting face peers out. Tentatively, Mycroft reaches in.

_Proximal phalanx._ She grips it tight in her fist.

They're all the same basic parts, in the end.

Mycroft's face is amalgamated emotion, unreadable and lost probably to even himself. But when they don't let Amelia go home that next day and he comes down at night to his brother already on the floor by the incubator, his back to the door as he stares up at his sleeping niece and weaves a steady murmur of stories to wrap her in sleep, Sherlock thinks they might have found that lost thing.

 

 

Mrs. Hudson peers between the two of them, arms crossed and head tilted to the side. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I know that it's cold and I'd like to be in my flat right now, so yes, by all means."

"What he really means is," John says around an exasperated sigh, "we'd be honored." He flashes their landlady a tired, but honest, grin.

A blush jumps up to her cheeks, fanning out over her face as she waves them off, but her smile's real, too. She steps down off the stoop and halts in front of John, arms outstretched and expectant - an odd contrast with the apprehension on her face. Sherlock watches curiously as John deposits their daughter in Mrs. Hudson's arms, and she goes still and near white. She'd had a similar reaction back at the hospital that first time she'd seen Amelia.

"Cried on my shoulder for about an hour afterward," John had admitted when all their guests had left, voice low, the memory shimmering in his eyes. "Especially when I mentioned all the complications."

But she doesn't cry this time. That brave woman is back. She looks down at Amelia and her face breaks, fractures, explodes into a brazen smile, unbeatable in every sense. A sun that won't go down.

The fear of another lost daughter not coming home, perhaps. That had done it at first.

So yes, he supposes. Yes, they're honored to banish that once and for all.

Mrs. Hudson pivots, staring up at the whitewashed walls of Baker Street before she marches through the open door. "Feels like just yesterday your daddies were moving in here, lovestruck as anything and not believing a word any of us said about the matter..." She laughs, and it floats out onto the street, tendrils of sound that beckon them up the stairs behind her, onwards and upwards to better things.

Happiness out of making someone else happy. Ridiculous. He's starting to believe that humans are little else.

He shuts the door behind them and follows John up to the flat. To their home.

 

 

"Knew you wouldn't be out of the game for long!" crows Lestrade, beaming as they strut into the morgue. Behind him, Molly waves an excited greeting. But the both of them stop short when Sherlock steps out from behind John. Hmm. Likely the device strapped to his chest, where a placid-looking Amelia is staring out calmly from behind her carrier at the rows of bodies and various instruments of dissection. He thinks she's handling it well.

"Oh, no you don't," Lestrade says warningly, just as Molly mutters a "Dear god," and removes her gloves. The both of them step forward and command as one, "Give me the kid."

Lestrade ends up holding Amelia, walking her around the supposedly less-threatening parts of the morgue and cooing to her in stupid voices, while Molly seems content to play with her feet and make the same stupid noises, only with different words.

"Never had to tell you to cheer up around a body before," John remarks, smugness lifting the corner of his lips.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock sneers, and very intentionally focuses on the dead jewel thief rather than the two idiots playing with his daughter.

He does cheer up a bit when he finds the amulet _inside_ the victim's stomach, though. Marginally intriguing, that.

He feels a warm, remembered stir, the beginning cadence of a metronome as the tempo changes, a pulse as familiar to him as his own heartbeat - the countdown of a crime waiting to be solved. He grins, the glimmer in his eyes nearly feral as it alights on John.

"Six ideas. Not counting the one about the blueberry-flavored wristband."

 

 

"We are not helping paint her room bloody  _pink,_ " Harry grits out through clenched teeth.

Clara stares her down. Sherlock has seen serial killers with similar expressions. "Pink is a fine color. She can like any color she wants to," she says with a haughty sniff.

Harry jabs at the palette, engagement - re-engagement? - ring catching the light and refracting over the shades in a rainbow of colors. "Green and orange. It's  _exciting_."

"Oh, yeah, 'cause she lives with your brother and his mad husband; not like she'll be getting enough of that," Clara retorts.

Harry ties up her hair and readjusts her overalls as she stands. Sherlock tilts his head, passively wondering if murder is about to be committed in his own home. Paint brush as the weapon - no, he doubts he's ever seen that before. "Green," she says threateningly, brandishing said paintbrush, "or no sex for a week."

Clara's mouth twitches. "You wouldn't."

"I so would."

Now Clara's standing, her hand creeping towards the pink can of paint at her elbow. "No, I mean you wouldn't last a day," she taunts, before she grabs the can and dashes up the stairs, cackling madly.

"Clara!" Harry shrieks, darting after her. "I swear to god and all his angels that if you paint one stroke of that vile color on my niece's walls I will personally -" a door slams and cuts off the rest.

"So," John comments idly into the silence, taking a sip of his tea. "They're getting on."

Behind him, Amelia giggles in her playpen. Sherlock can't help but agree.

_And baby makes three. See you soon, boys. - JM_

Sherlock's eyes zip up from his mobile, rest on John where he's sat on the sofa. Amelia's sleeping on his chest, her curling, dark hair tufting under John's chin. It shifts with every quiet breath he takes. Their eyes meet across the distance, something unspeakable reaching out between them.  _To have, to hold_.

Sherlock half-runs into the living room, the desperate meet of their lips careful not to disturb the sleeping child.

"We won't," he manages. Though for some odd reason, he's not afraid. Not anymore. There's a quiet resolve in the way his trembling hand curls over her thin shoulders and pulls them all together as one. That is, after all, how it all began.

"No," John agrees, and kisses him again, kisses away all that ever remained of fear.

Amelia breathes a happy sigh and dreams on.

 

 

No, John and Sherlock were never really normal, per se, but since 'normal' so often meant 'boring' in the pedestrian circles of their world, they never stood a chance at that. Especially not when what they found - though not always pleasant or comfortable, and certainly not  _normal_ \- was better.

From a small bundle of cells, to this:

It's late afternoon in Regent's Park when John sets Amelia on his shoulders, old injury forgotten in the joy on his face, and takes off into the autumn-sunset light.

Something blooms in Sherlock then, as their laughing silhouettes lance across his vision. Or perhaps it is just turning its face to the sun.

_Content. I am... content._

He hurries to catch up, watching as their daughter stretches her fearless arms toward the freedom of the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Acknowledgments:_
> 
> First and foremost, a gigantic, enormous, colossal thanks to KT, without whom I confess most of this would not have been possible. I owe you so incredibly much.
> 
> Next, to my NICU nurse of a mother, for answering all my seemingly-incongruous questions and blessedly not asking any herself. One day, I'll tell you about this. Or apologize, whatever comes first.
> 
> Additionally, to all my poor friends who have listened to me bitch and wax rhapsodic in turn about this fic for the past year.
> 
> Lastly, to you, reader, if you've gotten this far. I have read and loved each and every one of your amazing comments, to say nothing of the overwhelming amount of kudos, bookmarks, and just general support. You have kept me going. You have been the driving force at work. You are what has made this journey so incredible, and I'm hugely proud to say it was you who led me to the finish of my first multichap. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did. So once again, as we depart this universe at last - thank you.
> 
> If you're looking for more of my work, you can always check out the page. All going as planned, I should also be back in December with another NaNoWriMo multi-chap, this an as-of-yet-untitled Teenlock Summer Romance AU set in the French countryside, ha, so if that basic concept is up your alley I'll hope to see your lovely faces (er, icons?) around here again.
> 
> Love and thanks,
> 
> anchors


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